


you're ripped at every edge but you're a masterpiece

by daemon



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fic Dump, Headcanon, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kissing, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Older Characters, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Slice of Life, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-03
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-05-01 11:42:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 41,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14519787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daemon/pseuds/daemon
Summary: Neil is the first and last cartographer, and Andrew is the universe he lives in.(andreil fic/hc dump.)





	1. soft / neil josten is not soft

Neil Josten is not _soft_.

  
Andrew Minyard knows there is nothing _soft_ about Neil Josten. He has felt the scars, he has pressed into the tissue with his own fingers, felt where smooth, pale white flesh has knitted itself together over time from knives and bullets. He knows of the carnage, he sees the remnants and how they've built Neil into who he is today. Nearly a decade on the run, so many faces, so many personalities, so many aliases. Eyes that were not his ( _they were his father's eyes first_ ), hair that was not his ( _he was his father's reflection, after all_ ), and so many scars.  
  
(The first time Neil grabbed his hand and shoved it under his shirt, he wasn't surprised by the warm flesh marred by the old wounds, all the foxes knew Neil had something to hide; he was surprised by the action.  
  
The voluntary invasion of space, given up to Andrew willingly after clearly losing the internal battle with himself. Clearly not wanting anyone to know what he hides beneath bland t-shirts and Exy armour.)  
  
No, Neil Josten wasn't _soft_.  
  
There was no _child_ left in Neil. There was no _boy_ left in him. All that innocence was eaten away, eroded by the fear, the anger, and the grief. The layers and pieces, all the idiosyncrasies that made up _Nathaniel Wesninski_ are gone, stripped away, _burned_ by the years. Something hard has replaced them, something adaptable, some _one_ capable of being both so placid and unassuming, so subtle and so oblivious ( _by choice, of course_ ); that when the smart-mouthed remarks rip free and the tongue-lashing whips from his mouth, when his eyes harden and the persona of _Neil Josten_ reveals itself as more than a mere mask, it's more than just _interesting_. Andrew was quietly amused, and so frustratingly interested, and decides to push a few buttons, take their game further, and maybe sweeten the deal.  
  
No, it's possible Neil josten does not remember what _soft_ is.  
  
Andrew has traced the burn of an iron, has tasted the skin there, licked and sucked, and made his mark in purple and blue there. Scars make the skin stronger, meshed and sewn together with some of nature's best reinforcements.  
  
Andrew knows that Neil still watches all the exits, still eyes every camera in the mall, still side-eyes every cop or security guard he passes. Some habits are hard to break, instincts that never fade away.  
  
He has a _thing_ for Neil's hands, but he'll never admit it might be a fetish. They are calloused from guns and rackets, worn smooth (never _soft_ , never that) in some places, torn and broken in others. Slivers of silver make up the creases of Neil's palms and fingers, where the bloodlust of Wesninski's assistant sliced into them. One night, Andrew let his curiosity seep out and he traced them with his fingertips, and his lips, and lazy sweeps of his tongue; all while Neil sat like stone on the roof's ledge, a shiver visibly traveling up his spine in quick bursts from his signature control.  
  
It was almost intoxicating to know that he could wreck that control. That he alone could take Neil apart with his mouth and hands, to make him shudder and tremble, to crack the facade he puts up for the world, to unravel him and devour all that he offers.  
  
Even then, there is nothing _soft_ about Neil. As his mask crumbles, as his body arches off the bed (or the floor, couch, kitchen counter, the _roof_ ), as his breath stutters and rushes out, and his voice cracks and shatters in his throat between low moans– _fuck, Andrew, you asshole_ – this stupid, reckless man is merely egging him on, pushing his buttons–  
  
And the absolute _want_ he feels curling in his gut lets it happen.  
  
(The first time he feels it surprises him, and it makes him furious to feel something so trivial as _wanting_ someone. Andrew tries to bury the feeling, reminding himself of the moment when Neil had gone from a _warning_ to a _problem_ ; but he doesn't believe in regrets, he believes in settling debts.)  
  
But here is _Neil fucking Josten_ , resident smart-ass and oblivious moron, the fastest striker in the Foxes, and the annoying bit of glue that brought them together as one dysfunctional _family_ ; Andrew _wants_ him and plans to keep him until further notice.  
  
Here is _Neil_ _Josten_ , the snarky little shit that told Riko Moriyama to eat shit and die live on national television.  
  
Here is _Neil_ _Josten_ , the same idiot who walked into the Raven's Nest willingly like a sacrificial lamb for slaughter, just to protect him.  
  
Here is _Neil Abram_ _Josten_ , who burned the remains of his mother on the shores of the sea, and buried _Nathaniel Wesninski_ in Baltimore with his dead father, and stood his ground in the presence of Ichirou Moriyama; and like the sneaky little bastard that he is, inadvertently orchestrated the downfall of a world-class Exy team.  
  
Andrew accepts the culmination of humanity that makes Neil who he is today and he has no expectations of their future (and isn't that a funny thing, to have a _future_ at all), and as unimpressed as he is with the idea, it just might be worth it. Neil will not disappear again, he is alive and breathing, and while he lost his childhood, he won't lose his _future_.  
  
Yes, Andrew Minyard knows for a fact that _soft_ will never describe Neil Josten.  
  
( _Soft_ will only be fitting for their cats. Never Andrew, _never_ Neil.)

-


	2. closer / andrew makes his impressions simple.

They are older now, wiser now, settling into a semblance of peace neither believed they'd reach. ' _Yes or no?_ ' is for darker nights, the broken ones when the nightmares hit unexpectedly. 

It isn't needed for a spill of sunlight across Neil's belly or Andrew's back, or the touch of pale, calloused fingertips against skin tanned by outdoor practices at the local park. It isn't meant for mouths familiar with old, faded scars or chapped lips above hooded eyes. It is no longer a requirement now, but a tether when their darkness dances out from the corners of their minds.

Andrew always waits until he knows when Neil is dragging out sleep before he touches. There's a upward twitch of knowing lips and Andrew ignores it in favor of tracing the jagged lines across Neil's abdomen. There's a different kind of pressure behind his fingertips, as if he was trying to erase them, replace them with the pattern of his fingerprints. He traced upwards after a time, following the cut and shape of toned muscle and the scars therein.

"Hoping for coordinates?" Sleepy and graveled, Neil's voice caused him a second's pause before he continued.

"No thanks, I have a map already."

Neil gave a quiet snort and lifted his arms behind his head in a stretch, folding them behind his head as Andrew's hand ventured up his torso in lazy, purposeful strokes and touches.

"Tell me where it leads." And it's not a question, not a command; Neil is smiling too much again and Andrew wants to smother him. 

Instead he propped himself up on his elbow, pressed a hand flat on Neil's chest like an anchor, and kissed him to shut him up.

-


	3. blue / the first time andrew touches neil he gets a headache.

The first time Andrew touches Neil, he gets angry. He wants to _kill_ this little shit, because he does not tolerate liars and he does not tolerate stupidity. He especially doesn't care for the way his head hurts and the vicious brightness of _color_ bursting into his vision. He only walks away because he needs another pill and he's starting to feel sick for one too many reasons right now. It fades as he breaks contact and turns away and leaves Neil bewildered behind him.  
  
The second time it happens, Andrew wants to just punch Neil to make it stop. He's laughing and laughing and _laughing_ , because there is no fucking way this dark-haired, fake-eyed smart-mouthed asshole is _his_. But he _is_ , Andrew is just so amused now it's ridiculous, and _let the games begin_.  
  
The third time is on a rooftop, with shotgun kisses, whiskey courage, and he is just not drunk enough for this, he never will be. The colors are intense, the bleak grayscale, the monotony of black and white and the darkest shades of gray around him melts away with every kiss between them. He knows for sure now that Neil's hair is dyed and Neil's eyes are fake, and tells him never wear the contacts to Eden's Twilight ever again.  
  
The fourth time, there is a muted hunger between them. He tells Neil _this is nothing_ and it will continue to be _nothing_. Neil thinks he's lying. He's not– he doesn't _lie_ (he's just lying to himself).  
  
( _"I thought you hated me."_  
  
_"Every inch of you. Doesn't mean I wouldn't blow you."_ )  
  
Andrew looses count after that. The game continues until Neil (who is _Abram_ , who is _Nathaniel_ , who is _Neil_ again because–  _"I don't want to be Nathaniel anymore"_ ) has no more hidden truths to offer. He says he'll think of something and Andrew gives a smirk at that.  
  
( _"Am I at 94 yet?"_  
  
_"You are at 100."_ )  
  
When all is said and done, with the wounds bandaged, the games are won, their lives are _theirs_ again– Andrew sits on the rooftop at the end of the year with Neil at his side and he turns, blows smoke in the snarky asshole's face, and just _watches_ him.  
  
He takes in bright _auburn_ hair, shining near- _scarlet_ in the sun. He takes in the _icy-blues_ , brighter than hell in the sun. He takes in the _tanned_ skin, remembers the _black_ and bloodied stitches beneath the _white_ gauze and the angry _red_ burns beneath the bandages. He sees it all, and sees the _colors_ , and the way Neil is not-quite-smiling at him, he knows Neil sees it too, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders what colors Neil sees in him.  
  
( _"I'm nothing. And like you always say, you want nothing."_ )

-


	4. progression / neil understands that andrew works in strange ways.

Sometimes, Neil wonders at what goes through Andrew's mind when he's commanding silence from his cousin, or telling Kevin to _fuck off you stupid junkie_ , or calling Neil an _idiot_ for doing something he shouldn't have done (or opening his mouth _again_ , with the amount of fucking _sass_ that comes out of it). Oddly enough, he isn't as curious when Andrew is quiet. when he's quiet, Neil can almost see past the bursts of absolutely fury, past the seemingly unending irritation with his brother and his cousin and Kevin; at times, he thinks he can even see what's beyond Andrew's complete and total disdain for Exy.  
  
(Then again, Neil will never understand anyone who dislikes Exy, because Neil is _possessed_ by it in the same way Kevin is practically _made_ of it.)  
  
_"Am I still nothing?"_  
  
_"Absolutely."_  
  
Andrew has perfected the art of simultaneously ignoring people and watching them at the same time. So he knows for a fact that Andrew can peripherally see him reach out, knows he can see Neil's hand hovering just scant inches away in silent permission ( _yes or no?_ ).  
  
Neil keeps his smile to himself when the other man leans toward it _just so_ ( _yes_ ) and his fingertips thread into short, soft, wild blonde locks. Combing his fingers through it idly, Neil contents himself with the accepted touch, not quite staring at Andrew in the same way Andrew's not really looking at him.  
  
He won't comment on the way Andrew's eyes slowly fall closed at the simple touch, nor will he say anything about the so very quiet noise that escapes the blonde's throat. ( _He won't think of it as soft, because Andrew is anything but soft )_ he knows better. And while the foxes have very little faith in Neil's ability to pick his battles, he himself believes he knows all the right battles to fight and all the right battles to concede.  
  
_"Shut up."_  
  
_"No."_  
  
_"150%, Abram."_  
  
Neil gives the barest hint of a smirk as he takes his hand away, content to take it for what it is.

-


	5. bright / petals are messy.

Andrew wakes up with flower petals all over their bed. Neil's not there, but Sir is and Sir is munching on said petals. Andrew shoos him off, sits up, and just _stares_ at the mess. They are rose petals. They are white and pink.  
  
He imagines setting the bed on fire right then and there with his lighter and knows he wouldn't regret it. Neil walks in with two steaming mugs and stops, assessing the scene before him, turns around, and walks out of the room again.  
  
(Andrew gives a sigh that's not really a _sigh_ , just a quiet huff of breath.)  
  
Neil comes back with both mugs in one hand and a small garbage can.  
  
"Flowers." Andrew says, tone flat, not a question, because he really doesn't want to know.  
  
He catches the upward twitch of a smile threatening to overcome Neil's mouth. He narrows his eyes a fraction as he stares at the idiot.  
  
"Nicky," is all Neil says in answer as he sets the can down, hands Andrew his mug with too much sugar, sets his own on the nightstand, and begins sweeping the massacred flowers into the garbage. "He wanted to 'brighten up the place' for us before he left."  
  
"...no."  
  
Sir keeps trying to play with Neil's hand as he cleans off the petals, but Andrew grabs him and drops him on the floor. He's still staring at Neil. Neil just gives him a cheeky little smirk.  
  
"I hate flowers."  
  
"Mmhmm..." Neil leaves with the can to put it away and comes back to sit on the bed next to him, picks up his mug, and as he takes a sip Andrew can see the mirth in his eyes because the mug is hiding the smile he's 235% _sure_ is there.  
  
"I hate you, too."  
  
"Of course."

-


	6. confessional / forgiveness isn't given, it is earned.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's been six months since andrew last spoke to neil and _this_ is how he greets him.

neil josten had realized a long time ago that nothing about his life would ever be _normal_. he had accepted that. he had come to terms with it and faced the fact that _things_ would just _happen_ to him and he had no control over that. but that doesn't mean he expected a silver lining to all of this.

nor did he think he would end up locked in a confessional, during a wedding ceremony, sprawled across the small bench inside with his black slacks and boxers yanked down to his knees and a hand around his dick. more than that, he hadn't expected it to be andrew that pinned him to the wall, swallowed every noise he made and muffled every breathy moan with harsh kisses.

he supposed he deserved this. he'd been an idiot. andrew had ignored him until he realized he had been a damned moron, and it had been six months since they'd last seen one another. part of it was scheduling. part of it was neil being suddenly so afraid of facing andrew again.

"yes or no, neil." the quiet, rough tone of andrew's voice was the only giveaway that any of this was affecting him as well. neil wanted to make it worse, wanted to steal his breath and make his heart jump, same as he was doing to neil.

neil bit back a laugh, instead a cheeky grin spread on his face, " _yes_. it's always yes, andrew…"

he expected the unimpressed glare he received in turn and the " _insufferable idiot_ ," andrew muttered against his lips before wrenching away the starched collar of neil's shirt and attached his mouth to a spot on his neck.

neil felt his knees almost give away beneath him, glad for the bench and glad for the solid wall that was andrew's body pinning him in place. his shirt was unbuttoned and his torso exposed, andrew running his hands up and down neil's sides, nails scraping along his ribs and making neil shudder in response. then his mouth followed, teeth and tongue and lips trailing kisses with the intent take neil apart piece by piece. neil could hear the priest, praying and transitioning into guiding the vows; he wanted to drown out the droning voice, but he also wanted to listen for anyone who might be too close to the confessionals to hear them.

he bit his lip, the inside of his mouth, his tongue, all the keep the noises he wanted to make from escaping his throw. it was _torture_ not to vocalize anything when andrew touched him.

then andrew's mouth circled the head of his cock and he nearly lost control of himself right then. instantly, he'd brought his hand to his mouth and bit down, then planted his feet firmly on the ground to keep from sliding off the bench. his other hand hand a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the bench. it was insane how easily and how overwhelming his body's response was to andrew and andrew alone.

from then on, his brain seems to short-circuit and his whole body is attuned to wet heat of andrew's mouth and every caress of his tongue. it's maddening that he has to keep quiet, that he has to listen for the vows coming to an end (vows he's supposed to be witnessing— _he's got the fucking ring in his pocket for fuck's sake_ ) to keep himself even a little coherent through the encounter. he's absently aware of andrew grabbing the hand with a death grip on the bench and resting it on the blonde's shoulder, where he squeezes hard when he finally reaches his orgasm. he bites his hand so hard, he tastes blood and it grounds him.

andrew works him through it before pulling off, tucking him back in his boxer-briefs and helping him fix his slacks. neil stands on trembling legs to straighten the rest of his suit and finally meet andrew's unwavering gaze.

neil could hear dan saying her handwritten vows outside, and then it would be matt's turn, and then the rings. he had a diamond band burning a hole in his jacket pocket that he'd soon have to hand over to groom. but he couldn't tear his eyes away from andrew's, couldn't force himself to walk away just yet.

"yes or no?" he murmured, hardly above a whisper.

andrew stared at him at length, then gave a barely discernible nod, "yes."

he leaned forward a fraction and waited until andrew met him the rest of the way. he poured everything into the kiss. hope and forgiveness and need and the oft-forbidden feeling neither of them acknowledged but knew was there. when they finally broke apart, andrew pressed their foreheads together as they caught their breath, a firm hand hooked around the back of neil's neck where it belonged. he missed the proximity, the feeling of that grounding weight on his neck, the taste of andrew's lips on his. he was such a fucking idiot.

"sir misses you." he whispered, smiling only a little at the soft snort andrew made.

"king vomits on your pillow." andrew returned, "had to buy a new one."

neil closed his eyes, lifting a hand to skim his fingertips along andrew's smooth jaw, "that sucks. you'll have to bring him over."

it was a tentative olive branch. andrew wasn't one to forgive easily, if at all, but it's been years and his edges had soften minutely over time. andrew was silent for a moment longer.

"my room is number five." andrew's voice was empty of any emotion or inflection, but it was that absence that told neil volumes.

"i'll save you a dance." neil pulled away at last, but andrew dragged him back again for another kiss, this one chaste and sweet, almost.

"go save the day, dumbass." andrew muttered, pushing him away and leaving the tiny confessional first.

neil took a deep breath after, adjusting his tie and smoothing down his suit and making sure his shirt was tucked in properly before he stepped out and quietly made his way from the far back of the church to the front, skirting the edges silently and making his way around back to the line of groomsmen and easily neatly slipping into place next to matt during his vows.

he avoided the curious looks from the foxes who paid attention and seamlessly handed off the ring when it was time. afterwards, if anyone asked him how the ceremony went, he couldn't say, because the duration of it meant his eyes kept straying to a certain blonde menace seated next to his cousin. and if anyone noticed, they knew better than to say anything.

if neil found himself smiling at said blonde the rest of the night, well, they didn't say anything about that either.

-


	7. this is it / the future isn't as bleak as it used to be.

neil wakes to fingertips on his scalp. they are strange in their tentative actions, uncanny in the way they are gentle and sure. digits twine in his curls and brush his temples as he breathes in time with the slow, measured rise and fall of the chest under his ear. he hears the heartbeat, familiar and strong and ever so resilient.

neil wakes to snow fall beyond the windows. the curtains are pulled back, the blinds lifted, and the warmth in the bedroom is an ambient temperature. the sun is bright above the clouds and the world is too white and pure, but the snowfall is calm and sedate, and he can’t help but think―

 _this is it_.

andrew knows he's awake. knows he’s no longer cataloguing every second he's living. knows he's no longer counting his breaths or dreading the coming hours.

andrew knows he's _alive_ and that he's allowed to breathe, to wake another day, to _keep this life_.

"it's finally over," he says, and it's unnecessary, and he knows it.

andrew doesn't move or acknowledge it, but neil smiles anyway, because he knows andrew might think the same, in a roundabout way.

 _this is it,_ he thinks, and knows the future is his now.

-


	8. boundary / when we were young, was this the dream we had?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's fascinating to watch him work. It's methodical, careful, and systematic. There is also passion, unexpectedly so.
> 
> If Andrew Minyard had to take a guess, he would bet that The Butcher of Baltimore did not have passion like this, just a brutality borne of greed and madness spawned from his powerful grip on the eastern seaboard.

It's fascinating to watch him work. 

It's methodical, careful, and systematic. There is also passion, unexpectedly so. 

If Andrew Minyard had to take a guess, he would bet that The Butcher of Baltimore did not have passion like this, just a brutality borne of greed and madness spawned from his powerful grip on the eastern seaboard. But as he watches the dark auburn hair stick to a sweaty forehead, and  listens to the shrieking, gasping breaths of the man trapped beneath his partner, he knows this is a misplaced outlet for that passion. Another scream tears itself from the whimpering man's throat as slender fingers tighten around his windpipe and Andrew's eyes narrow a fraction more because he can see the flex and tension of muscle in a lean back framed by a sweat-soaked shirt. 

He watches _Neil Josten_ tighten his grip even more with a barely audible grunt, and he can almost hear Neil's teeth grinding together beneath the choking sounds. Pressing his lips together in a thin line, he steps forward and easily threads his own calloused fingers into damp strands; the deceptively tender action is contrasted by the hard tug he gives, dragging Neil's head back to force the other man to look up at him.

The rictus grin gracing Neil's usually soft mouth doesn't belong there. 

"Yes? I'm working." Neil says, showing his talent for multitasking in the way his undivided attention is now focused intently on Andrew while his hands are still a vice-grip on the snitch's throat.

Andrew cocks his head to the side and Neil gets the hint. He moves with a grace honed between his youth and his adulthood, he's all lithe limbs and toned muscle, and every inch of him is as dangerous and forbidding as every inch of Andrew is untouchable and deadly. With a flick of his wrist, one of his signature knives slices a clean line across the other man's throat, and while he cleans the knife off with a quick swipe of a cloth from his pocket (another one for the burn pile, of course); his attention is narrowed to Neil and Neil alone. 

The young patriarch is watching the snitch bleed out on the plastic, a slightly disappointed twist to his lips (inappropriate as the moment is for it, he can't help but want to pin the blue-eyed menace down and kiss him senseless to wipe that look off his face).

"I was doing fine." Neil says, that hint of disappointment now slipping into his voice.

A thin, blonde brow arcs on Andrew's forehead in disdain for that moronic answer, "What have I said about that word?"

Frowning and deciding against pushing it, Neil instead breathes a heavy sigh and turns away from the body. Andrew watches him go for a moment, then signals for two other men to take care of the mess before he follows Neil outside. When Andrew finds him, he's sitting on the hood of their latest Maserati (pitch black GranTurismo MC sport with aftermarket upgrades to add more power than Neil knows what to do with, but Andrew takes full advantage of - Neil supposed he likes the suede interior, it was soft and plush and naps in the front seat didn't kill his neck), a cigarette between his lips and his hands hanging loosely between his bent knees (his hands are covered in bruises and small cuts, and Andrew is a professional, he will resist the urge lick those knuckles clean while they're out on business). Neil holds up the carton for Andrew as the blonde approaches and leans against the car beside him. 

It's quiet between the two of them for a long while. Long enough for their subordinates to carry the body out, lift it into the back of a black pick-up truck, and drive away to dispose of it. It's nothing but the two of them out here, another old farm owned by a fake identity that would never be traced back to Neil, kept solely for dealing with the unsavory business of culling out the weak links from his growing organization. 

Neil takes a deep breath to let the scent of smoke wash through his lungs, leaning over and resting his head on Andrew's shoulder. They have long explored terrain of each other, pushed every boundary and crossed every line. They found a balance after years of mapping each other out at last, and created new lines and new boundaries.

"Thank you." It comes through a small cloud of smoke, rough around the edges and a little strained, as if Neil was still trying to pull himself the rest of the way from the edge that Andrew had already starting tugging him from.

Andrew says nothing, because he doesn't need to. He isn't afraid to yank on the leash keeping them tethered (not at all to give the illusion of mercy - there is no such thing in their lives anymore - but to ensure the one boundary Andrew has established for Neil is not shattered); while Neil rarely has to return the gesture, Andrew is not afraid to use it when he must.

"Yes or no?" 

Neil lifts his head and meets his steady gaze, and yes, there it is, the smile that belongs is back at last.

"Yes."

-

Andrew Minyard's memory always has been and always will be vivid. 

So it is no surprise when he thinks back to the day when Neil decided to step away from everything he had built (his family, his team, his life) to destroy the legacy he ran from the first time. But there was more to it, he wanted to tear down more than a legacy, he wanted to burn an empire to the ground. He wanted to take back their freedom, and he knew it would take more years of playing his favorite sport in the world to pay back a debt.

Not too long after that, _Neil Josten_ and _Andrew Minyard_ disappeared into the night. 

The beloved Maserati is left with Robin Cross, along with the Columbia house, and they will never see the solemn expression when she wakes up the next morning to find she has been given the keys to the kingdom. Andrew had taken care of terminating their phone services, wiped both phones, and later took a hammer to them with barely subdued glee. Neil had packed for them, one duffel bag each, essential clothes, a coat each, toiletries and necessities. Then he pulled out hair dye, colored contacts, and a make-up case; because they were too recognizable now, and fading into obscurity would take more than just a change of their natural colors. 

Neil bleached his hair blonde with grey contacts, Andrew dyed his black with black contacts ("Like your soul?" "Shut the fuck up, junkie."); when it was done, and they'd showered, and Neil had set about collecting the evidence of their great escape, Andrew stood in the bathroom with a cigarette between his lips and stared at himself in the mirror with a sort of detachment Neil hadn't seen in years.

"Not bad, Minyard." Neil remarked, standing in the doorway with a garbage bag that would later be dropped and burned once they made it out of the county at least.

Andrew's eyes flickered to him briefly, "I don't like it."

Neil shrugged, before reaching out to steal the cigarette and take a slow drag of his own to finish it off. 

"Would you drop this particular habit?" 

Andrew stared at the cigarette, blinked once, and moved to push past Neil out of the bathroom, "You're enough of an addiction, I don't need anything else."

-

In less-than forty-eight hours, Neil and Andrew had setup a dummy accounts, closed their own main bank accounts, and carefully sequestered enough money to both keep them going as they gutted the remnants of the Wesninski syndicate, as well as discreetly funnel some of their money into trust funds for their family. 

By the end of the week, they were gone.

-

They started in Maryland.

Three years in and they quietly eliminated the straggling remnants of his father's syndicate. 

Neil remembered every stash of weaponry his mother had left behind, every hole in a wall, every location of such stores that would put Sarah Conner to shame (it was, "Are you sure your mother wasn't a doomsday prepper?" and, "Fuck off, Minyard."). They had all the means and contacts they needed to create new aliases and identities (and Andrew was quickly learning why life on the run had turned Neil into the cagey and secretive teenager he'd been all those years ago).

Three years later, Neil had established his own power base under a new alias, with a dark-haired, dark-eyed, and absolutely brutal menace he kept at his side, the supposedly inhuman right-hand man who was just as terrifying as Neil. But they were smart, and much as Neil hated it, he took a few pages out of his dead father's book and had learned to cover his tracks—no evidence left behind, perfect crimes all across the board. 

The weakest links were snuffed immediately, alliances were made, and another three years later, a new syndicate that now stretched across the states was enough to systematically dismantle the Moriyama empire piece by piece. They made allies and enemies alike, eliminating any and all aspects of business, trade, and under-the-table dealings made by the crime family and their partners. It was just as passionate  and uninhibited as the way Neil once threw his whole being into playing Exy; there was rarely an in-between to the way he took a life, set fire to a building, or planned a raid.

It took just over a decade to severe the last of the Moriyama's ties in the states. 

When Ichirou Moriyama stood face-to-face with _Nathaniel Wesninski_ one last time, it took a less than a moment for him to realize that fate was not on his side. He stood alone, whereas _Neil Josten_ 's back was covered by a familiar _monster_. His mansion was littered with the bodies of his men, the security system and computer mainframe to back it up was destroyed, and his wife and young child had been taken and shipped off back to Japan without his knowledge. 

("Mercy is pointless," Andrew had said, but Neil wouldn't not condone killing an innocent child.)

"Neil Josten." Ichirou still held himself like a statue, a pillar of the power he inherited from his late father (power coveted by his childishly vicious, stupid, _dead_ younger brother). "To what do I owe the pleasure of your unannounced visit?"

"I've come to settle our debt."

-

They rarely watched the news or tv in general, but tended to keep on top of online articles and newspapers when they thought about it. Andrew wasn't surprised to find every front page in the nation sporting headlines about the fall of the Moriyama empire; the revelations about their yakuza underbelly and connections to the deceased Butcher of Baltimore, and the ties to Edgar Allen's Ravens.

Andrew never said it out loud, he didn't need to, but the satisfaction Neil felt was mirrored in every kiss between the two for months afterward.

-

It's been a long, bloody road between using his body as an intuitive weapon on the Foxhole court and using his body as a precision weapon to kill. 

Muscles once used to swing a racquet now propelled a fist with bloody results. Intuition and a calculating mind that once earned him his reputation as one of the fastest strikers on the court now applied to deals and bargains and business alike. People were open books to him, more than just words and pictures, but things broken down to bone-deep materials. He had rebuilt and honed his body to be more devastating than the guns in his hands or the knives strapped to his limbs.

Not only that, but with Andrew at his side, they were some of the most feared men alive by reputation alone. They worked in tandem, a well-oil machine, covered each other's strengths and weaknesses; they were faster, and harder, and stronger together and Neil couldn't stomach the thought of anyone else at his side. There was no replacement for Andrew, no one else as equal or as loyal. 

They had become almost a perfect mirror of one another. It was impossible that two people should be so deeply connected but it was the only way they knew how to live.

( _"You gave him your game, give me your back."_ )

-

Neil doesn't let himself linger on the past too much anymore. 

He tries to think of his mother's smile, though he knows it'll never overshadow her abuse. He tries to think of the golden moments between the bloody ones. In the quieter days, when they were the midst of planning their next move, the next takeover or the next kill, Neil would allow himself a small slice of time to peek into the lives of his Foxes. He needed the motivation and the reminder that all of this was worth it— and if Andrew appeared at his side, a hand on the back of his neck and fingers threading into his hair, to quietly ground him in the present, that was fine, too.

They find Matt and Dan have moved up north, both for Dan's coaching work and Matt's new team. Their Facebook accounts have photos of their wedding invitations, the date and time, and Neil makes a note to send a gift incognito while Andrew, Andrew who thinks of everything and nothing all at once, tells him to forget the gift, they'll just go to the wedding. Neil stares at him, both mildly impressed and more than a little shocked at the suggestion. 

Andrew says, "We take four with us, and Janie."

Neil leans back in his chair, lifting a had to rub at the burn scar on his cheek, "We'll need suits, wedding attire. I'm sure Janie will enjoy the chance to dress up more than usual. This is taking a risk. Can we afford to?" He looks up at Andrew when he asks this, meeting his gaze evenly.

Andrew has a file in hand, one marked by one of Neil's ridiculous fox paw doodles because of the content within. It's a growing file of magazine spread, newspaper clippings, photos, printed excerpts from social media accounts; all of it a growing messy collection of the original Foxes up until that point. On top was a copy of the invitation. The minute flicker of Andrew's eyes is searching, a slight twitch of a brow and his eyes narrow when he finally comes to a conclusion.

"Can we afford not to?" He asks, closing the file and setting it on the desk in front of Neil. He moves to lean against the edge of it next, arms crossing over his chest and Neil can't help the way his eyes linger on the slice of skin between where his shirt sleeves ended and his arm bands began, the subtle shift of musculature beneath his skin would always catch Neil's attention. 

" _Staring_ , junkie."

Neil dragged his eyes back to Andrew's unimpressed glare with a small smile, "I think it's a meaningful risk."

He could tell Andrew was just barely holding back an epic eye-roll at Neil's rare instance of sentimentality.

-

Not long after leaving, and during one of their few stints in the south, Andrew had found Janie Smalls again. Neil had never met Janie, but he had known she was the original striker whose place he took back in his first year. She had attempted suicide and was hospitalized for years before going through rehabilitation and release. It was just after this release that Neil and Andrew had found her in a club in New York, and Andrew decided to bring her back like some stray dog.

She still had demons, but she had learned to survive, and Andrew found himself taking on a new protégé. Janie learned to fight with a killer's edge from Neil and with precision and purpose from Andrew. She became not only their messenger, but another face for the upper echelons of their own small organization to look to for leadership. Janie became the Queen through which Neil and Andrew could govern their growing syndicate. 

_"I wonder how Kween Day would feel about a new Queen at our side."_ Neil had mused one day over breakfast with the two of them.

_"Shut up, Neil."_ Andrew was setting a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him and had flicked his cheek.

Janie had laughed, her gray eyes lighting up at the monicker, _"I doubt he'd be jealous. He's still prettier than I am."_

It was an arrangement that worked and worked _well_. No one questioned her, no one mocked her; those who did, usually ended up with a warning knife to the throat or a venomous smile coupled with a sliced artery. Janie was a perfect compliment to Neil's quiet and unfathomable fury and Andrew's unsettling apathy and lethal skill.

They haven't looked back since.

-

The wedding is small, but not small enough that Andrew, Neil, Janie, and their bodyguards aren't able to blend in. 

The ceremony and the reception are held at a beach house mansion, decorated everywhere with the signature Fox colors of white and orange, that Neil has a sneaking suspicion was provided by Allison Reynolds herself as the venue, and the place is bustling with guests and catering staff alike. The trio purposely keep to the outskirts of the mingling guests outside, not wanting to be caught nor wanting to get cornered inside should someone recognize them at all. The subordinates they brought with them are dressed to blend in, they carry drinks and mingle while people are filling in the seating arrangement on the back lawn. They were a half hour away from the ceremony, and soon the two would see more than just a scant few familiar faces from their Palmetto years.

Neil dyed his hair brunette for this particular outing, had allowed Janie to work magic with make-up to cover the scars on his face and neck, and wore hazel contacts to hide his natural eyes. Andrew had kept up the black dye of his hair, having allowed it to grow out more with long bangs hanging over his eyes; he wore gray contacts this time, and the casual white designer suit he wore complimented the fake eye color perfectly. Andrew had made him dress simply and Neil had cracked a terrible joke about being a professional at dressing to blend in, which had earned a scathing glare and a light cuff upside the head. He hadn't stopped smiling all morning until Janie had sat him down in their hotel bathroom and told him to stop smirking so much.

Neil thought about when they had decided to park a block away, since the driveway and spare beach parking was full of guest cars already, when Janie had fussed over his make-up, Andrew told her to _calm the fuck down_ , and Jax, one of their bodyguards and another 'face' of their organization, tried very hard not to laugh and failed when Janie asked Andrew if he wanted some eyeshadow to complete his teen goth look. He rarely let his amusement at Andrew's expense show on his face, but the former blonde glared at him anyway, like he knew just what was going through Neil's mind at the short interaction. 

When Janie slipped her arm through his as part of their cover, he couldn't help the old flutter of nerves in his stomach as they approached the mansion ahead with their men falling into step beside them. 

This was their family, one he and Andrew had built to fill the massive hole left from tearing themselves away from the Foxes. And though he would be seeing his Foxes for the first time in several years since their disappearance, it wouldn't be the same, because their old friends and teammates wouldn't be _seeing_ them at all.

-

They were careful to avoid everyone. 

Keeping a safe distance from the bride and groom in a small sea of white-clad guests, detouring subtly to the far end of any room or outside patio whenever Aaron and Katelyn were in sight, leaving a room entirely when Renee entered, generally skirting the crowd with the intent to remain anonymous. It was hard, but Andrew's solid presence at his right and Janie's perfect smile distracting any curious guests helped ground him and keep him aware enough not to slip. Janie had made an art of misdirection during her time with them, able to sufficiently capture attention and hold it, keeping all eyes on her and away from the 'boyfriend' and 'best friend of boyfriend' flanking her. 

Janie had purposefully dressed radiantly, wearing a white halter-top sundress with a an orange rose print—and if anyone noticed how the petals shaped skulls, they seemed to know better than to comment. She complimented the dress with white and orange heels and styled her chestnut-red hair in a classic pin-up hairdo, and affected a sweet and glowing persona. All of it part of their cover as distant friends from another Exy team and soon-to-be affianced to Neil's alias.

When it was time for the ceremony, guests filtered out to the back law where chairs and a small, open gazebo served as the platform for the vows at the end of the aisle. The three of them took seats in the far  back and nearest the end of a row, with their bodyguards sitting strategically around them. They would be staying through the ceremony and part of the reception, leaving only when things started winding up into party mode, since they couldn't afford to stay much longer than that.

Neil watched the entire thing almost in a daze, focused so intently on Dan and Matt, both grinning so hard their faces looked close to splitting in half. He felt Andrew lean against him halfway through and Janie pat his knee in something akin to comfort, because she knew this was one of the reasons Neil and Andrew fought so hard for their goals. To see his Foxes happy like this, pursuing their futures and their dreams, _this_ is what kept Neil as anchored as Andrew at his side did. 

This is what he had to remind himself of every time he wrapped his hands around another throat and _squeezed_ , every time he and Andrew took apart another body and burned the evidence, every time they hunted down another tangled web of the Moriyamas and tore it down.

_For them. For his Foxes. For his family._

It was hard to keep the old fondness out of his eyes when he watched the newlyweds walk down the aisle together, hearing the cheers of friends and family alike as the two hurried into the mansion to change and guests started filing across to another section of the property where the reception would take place. 

Just a little bit longer. He could have this for a little longer before they would have to leave and their reality would set in once more.

-

Andrew signaled when it was time to go. 

It was over an hour into the reception and people were quickly heading into the realm of drunk and tipsy, making it the perfect time for their small group to slip out in twos and threes. When they walked out to the front of the house and made their way down the front steps to the driveway, something caught Andrew's eye near the newlywed's vehicle waiting for the end of the night. His gaze sharpened when he noticed a shadow wiggling around under a new bright blue truck that could only be Matt's newest incarnation of his old baby.

"Neil." He caught the other man's attention and threw a look towards the truck.

Both of them tensed from _content_ to _lethal_ in the span of a moment, and Janie stepped away from Neil's side, giving the signal for their guards to spread out as well. He led the way down the steps in complete silence, with Neil behind him and drawing a knife from his sleeves as Andrew knelt down and reached for the person beneath the truck. He grabbed an ankle and dragged, earning a curse for his troubles and nearly a set of industrial scissors in the arm, but he caught the man's wrist lightning quick before the sharp points could make contact. 

" _Who the fuck are you?_ " Neil hissed, dropping down to kneel on the man's other side and shoving his knife up against the man's throat, "What were you doing?"

The man swallowed audibly and made an attempt to struggle free, but with a knife at his throat and another pressing into a spot between his ribs, he stopped quickly enough. But he didn't speak, simply glared at the two of them until Janie stepped up and simply pressed one of her sharp heels into the man's groin and earned a strained groan from the would-be saboteur.

"My darling boss asked you two questions, sweetie. I suggest you answer him." Janie's voice was sickly sweet, but the edge to it spoke volumes. "Quickly now." She advised, pressing her heel a bit harder.

" _Okay!_ Just— _Fuck woman_ , Romero! Romero Malcolm—" The man's voice weakened the harder she pressed, but Andrew's attention was on Neil.

Neil's whole demeanor changed. 

He went rigid, his eyes narrowed, his face was carved stone at the mention of a name from his past and every line in his body screamed _predator_ , just as Andrew's instincts suddenly screamed _run_ and it was an unfamiliar and far more unsettling feeling than he'd like to admit. The smirk that tugged at Neil's lips was cold and matched the way his eyes could freeze hell if he wasn't wearing contacts. 

"What's your name, hm?" Neil asked, slicing a thin warning line along the man's throat, eyeing the blood seeping from the small wound with a distant kind of interest.

"Rick, Ricky— _please_ —"

Andrew dragged his eyes from Neil and gave 'Rick' a dead-eyed stared, "I hate that word." He murmured, pressing the blade of his knife deeper into the cowering man's side an half an inch deeper, earning a strangled moan of pain for it. "Answers. Now."

"R-Romero's trying to flush out Wesninski's kid. He's targeting that team he was on—" Rick swallowed again, breaths coming on in short, panicked bursts, "He knows the kid disappeared, but we keep losing people and he's freaking the fuck out, man— I'm just doing a job—it ain't personal!" 

Neil clapped a hand over the whimpering man's mouth and ran another slice across his throat, "Oh, but that's where you're wrong." His face contorted and his mouth stretched into the rictus grin that Andrew found so disconcertingly _wrong_ on his partner's face, "It is _very_ personal."

Neil looked up at him, that predator's mask firmly in place and Andrew merely blinked, wanting deeply to kiss him, to get _Nathaniel's_ grin off _Neil's_ face.

"Get him up. We're going for a ride." Neil looked down at their captive with disdain slipping into his features and poked at his jugular with his knife, "Janie, leave a tip for the cops and call a tow company. One of ours."

After that, Jax and the rest of their bodyguards descended and dragged the man to his feet, walking him between three of them down the block. Neil was silent the entire walk back at their vehicles, while Janie walked behind them, her phone conversation drifting over them. They had a safe-house setup two hours west of here, but they would be heading south instead to one of their shell-owned properties and interrogate their captive for any information they could glean from him.

The sharp smile and carefree expression on Neil's face told him that Rick wouldn't last the night.

-

It goes like this: Neil _breaks_ Rick. 

Their prisoner barely lasts a few hours under Neil's skilled hands and spills all that he knows between begging for his life. Neil hates begging almost as much as Andrew does now, and when he feels they've gotten all that they could from him, Neil snaps his neck and drops the corpse without a care. When he stands and faces Andrew, he's covered in blood and his blue eyes are dark with his rage. 

He looks like a _demon_ and Andrew hands him a cigarette.

They learned that Romero Malcolm escaped prison and was on a vendetta to find the Nathan Wesninski's son. They learn that their systematic cherry picking of the Wesninski syndicate's lower levels is putting the remaining bosses on edge, making them desperate. The remnants are scattered and afraid. 

They learned that Dan and Matt were the first on a list of targets that included the original Foxes, Andrew's twin and sister-in-law, Coach Wymack, and Abby. In an uncharacteristic burst of fury bordering on animalistic rage—Neil had ripped several teeth out of the man's mouth with that revelation and watched indifferently as he choked and gagged on his own blood for several minutes.

They learned that smaller things have already happened, things Neil missed the few times he dared to check up on their family. 

(Robin was mugged twice in the last year and the second time earned her stitches. Renee and her husband were stalked and intimidated during her rare stints back in the States between Peace Corp missions. Allison is nearly shot during a car jacking, but she escapes with a few bruises from fighting back and taking down her attacker so she could run.)

Accidents. Romero Malcolm was plotting accidents and hoping to make collateral damage of their Foxes just to drag _Nathaniel Wesninski_ back into the light. 

Cutting the brakes on on Matt's truck and planning for the newlyweds to be gravely injured or worse was the next step— it was meant to be the beginning of far more sinister things to come. 

Andrew watched Neil with a carefully bland expression as Neil wiped his bloody hands off on a towel. Neil's self-control was close to shattering, one wrong word or move and he would lash out. He kept his distance for now, lighting himself another cigarette and lingering as Neil called forth two of their guards to wrap of the remainder of the body. As much as he didn't want to, Neil was taking a page from the Butcher's book, sending a not-so-subtle warning for Malcolm to stop now while he was still alive.

"Neil."

The other man stopped, eyes distant for a moment longer before he dragged them from the corpse being carried away to Andrew, who waited to the side as quietly as death for Neil to resurface from his rage. He reached out and Neil walked over to him, stopping when they were toe to toe and allowed him to skim his fingers along the scars left from Lola. He gripped his chin next, forcing Neil to look him in the eyes and letting the silence hang between them for a while longer.

Until, finally, he broke it, "Yes or no, Neil?"

Neil took a deep and trembling breath, "Yes."

Andrew kissed him, hard and wanting, a fierce and solid reminder that he was still _Neil Josten_. 

He kissed Neil like their world would end between this moment and the next, like Neil wasn't standing before him covered in blood and sweat and dirt; he kissed him to remind him of their present, of their past, and their future. He needed Neil to see that he was still human, that he wasn't the same monster as the Butcher, that _Nathaniel_ was dead, that Neil was _Neil_ and that is whom Andrew lived for.

When they parted, Neil squeezed his eyes shut and just _breathed_. 

" _You are Neil Josten. Nathaniel Wesninski is dead_."Andrew whispered so softly in Russian, only Neil would hear it, " _You are a still Fox, an Exy-obsessed junkie, and I hate you for it_."

It took a few minutes longer, before Neil leaned in for another kiss and the tension in his body melted away. Neil was breathing normally after a few more minutes and when he started stripping away the ruined white suit, he knew the other man was coming back to himself gradually. They left basement room when members of their cleanup crew showed up and he followed Neil across the property to the old farmhouse, where Janie and another of their bodyguards named Riley were cooking an easy dinner of pasta and marinara sauce. She often made sure their safe houses were stocked with non-perishable foods, depending on which locations they were likely to use the most. 

Andrew watched Neil head toward the stairs, motioning him to go up when he stopped next to Janie and confirmed that the wedding incident had been taken care of. Her eyes also followed Neil as he headed up the stairs and disappeared. 

"Feels like war." She hummed loftily, tossing a few basil leaves in the sauce she was stirring.

He stuck a finger in the sauce much like a cheeky kid and ignored her withering glare, "We don't like people touching what is ours." He said simply, then left the kitchen and headed upstairs.

Andrew went straight for the master bathroom, picking up the trail of red-stained clothes along the way and pulling a paper bag from under the sink and tucking the outfit away to burn later. He found Neil sitting on the edge of the tub, naked in the steamy room and clearly waiting for him. Instead of shutting the door, he stood in the doorway and stripped down piece by piece, resting each article of the suit on the vanity counter and only stepping over the threshold when he was just as bared as Neil was. 

Both of them had a collection of scars from the last several years. Some were freshly healed and some, like Neil's childhood collection, were old and merely pale white lines against their skin. Between the scars on his own arms and the scars on Neil's chest and face, they made quite a pair and always had.

_"Dusha."_ Neil whispered, the endearment earning him an amused snort from Andrew when the shorter man closed the bathroom door and locked it behind him.

Facing Neil again, he strode forward with purpose and ushered him under the hot water. He grabbed a washcloth and the body wash, squirting some on the cloth and getting to work washing any and all blood from Neil's body. He wanted to get the metallic scent off his skin, he wanted to wash away the mixed tang of anger and hatred, and most of all, he wanted to wash away the remnants of _Nathaniel_. The suds and water soon ran from red to pink to clear, once Neil had washed out his dyed hair and stopped laughing when Andrew poked at him.

He allowed Neil to drape his arms loosely around his neck, meeting him halfway for a kiss that lingered several long minutes until he felt the last of the rigid tension leave Neil's body. Reaching behind his idiot, he turned off the water and pulled them both out to towel dry and leave the steamed bathroom to grab fresh clothes. They didn't have to go far, having found new outfits laid out on the bed; Neil chuckled, commenting that Janie was more of a big sister than anything else somedays.

They shared slow kisses and trailing touches as they dressed, intent on taking their time until Riley knocked on the bedroom door to let them know dinner was ready.

Neil released a deep sigh, combing his fingers through his damp hair and looking at Andrew, "We took a calculated risk going today."

He arched a brow knowingly, "It was a meaningful risk." He reached over and traced a fingertip along Neil's jawline, "It meant protecting them. Had we not gone, we would be having a completely different conversation right now."

He saw the smile light up Neil's eyes before it spread on his lips, "I'd rather we attend more weddings than funerals."

Andrew shrugged and stood up, grabbing his armbands and tugging them back on his arms, feeling the cool weight of his knives and pressing them against his arm until the metal warmed with his skin, "I don't care either way."

Ignoring the way Neil eyed him, he turned and left the room, feeling more than hearing Neil fall into step behind him as they went back downstairs and joined their group at the dining table. Riley was setting out silverware and potholders on the table, Janie was draining the pasta in the sink, and Jax was pulling garlic bread from the oven. Neil let himself be pushed down into a chair nearest the wall and Andrew took the seat next to him, snatching a warm piece of garlic bread when Jax had placed a basket of it in the middle of the table. 

Neil snorted when he started tearing it into bite-sized pieces and leaned over to kiss beneath his ear, "Some habits are hard to break, I see…"

Andrew only gave a noncommittal in response.

-

It begins like this: they take a week to plan, another to strategically place plainclothes men and women on the Foxes, and another month to hunt down Romero Malcolm. 

Neil uses that time to gather more evidence against him (even more against the Moriyamas, they have promises to keep and debts to pay), more accounts, more bodies. They're on a search and destroy mission and they hunt down every last speck that remains of the Wesninski syndicate, barreling through the lesser bosses, the drug dealers, and anyone on their payroll. 

They dismantle an the broken empire piece by piece and with every downfall they create, Neil buries another piece of _Nathan Wesninski_.

This is their six, going on their seventh year and as they build their own organization, they pull problematic youth from the gutters and back alleys; like Wymack before them, they give these kids purpose and keeping them from the edge. Andrew is good with them, harsh when he needs to be, silent where it counts. They find drug addicts and get them clean, giving them something new to focus on, something worthwhile. They find dropouts and teach them how to fight for themselves with knives and fists. They give these lost ones a home and earn their loyalty in exchange. Neil teaches them Exy, giving them the perfect outlet for their aggression. 

Neil uses this to their advantage as well. He takes three of them, records video of their games in local community centers and anonymously sends them to Wymack. Andrew doesn't scold him for it, because he knows what Neil is doing. Neil is turning some of their 'children' into sleepers, in a way. When they get a letter to a PO box address address saying Coach David Wymack would like to meet with them with the intention to sign them as Foxes, the smile on Neil's face is unfamiliar to their little army, but Andrew is silent for days, because he hasn't seen _that_ smile on Neil's face since their last game on the Foxhole Court.

Andrew gives them their assignments, Neil gives them a rundown of who they're protecting and how to handle their charges. Leigh shines as a striker and she is told to stick to Wymack like glue, and she's like Neil in a way, quiet to the last but feisty and mouthy when she's angry. Alex is a backliner, and between her and Tessa as a brutal goalkeeper, their defense is a force to reckoned with; they're meant to keep their eyes on Abby and Robin, told if they ever need _'help'_ , using tutoring and practices is a good way to keep close to both of them. Neil is far more excited than he should be about some of their rejects making it as Foxes, Andrew thinks he looks like a proud parent but he never says it aloud. 

By the end of the month, Riley drives the girls down to South Carolina and if Neil is on his bluetooth the entire time while the girls get settled at Abby's, Riley says nothing about it and only laughs whenever Neil makes a snarky comment about Coach. Riley stays as close to Palmetto as possible, finding an apartment near the campus and acting as backup for the girls when needed. They send Janie regular updates as promised and it's not long before they're fully integrated into the team and the lives of their principals.

Several weeks after that, Andrew has situated covers and identities for the men and women assigned to their former Foxes. They send two to Allison, then a third when they find out about her constant travels and need for personal security and a new assistant. Three are sent to watch over Dan and Matt, keeping eyes on the budding coach and backliner and their growing family. Andrew decides it's pointless to station someone on Renee, instead he sends her a postcard, in a code all their own, telling her to keep eyes on her own.

Near the end of their fortifications, they hand the reigns to Janie. They leave her in charge and don't tell her where they're going, only that they'll be home soon (because there is home and then there is _home_ , there is their family here and there is their _family_ ). They each pack a duffel, armed well with knives and guns alike, get in the car and leave.

Once again, Andrew and Neil disappear.

-

Andrew finds Romero by accident. 

It was a small slip, something stupid like a credit card used in Baltimore. Neil laughs, because _how predictable_. They track him there and Neil finds it _hilarious_ how the bastard has been squatting in Neil's childhood home. He thinks it's fitting, Andrew thinks it's overdramatic; they're both done playing these games and tuck their selves away for safe keeping. The masks they wear, these cold and empty faces, it hides the truth of themselves, wanting to protect _Neil Josten_ and _Andrew Minyard_ , from having hands too dirty and too bloody. 

Here, they are _Nathaniel Wesninski_ and _Andrew Doe_. 

They are the worst parts of themselves on display, unrecognizable to anyone but each other. This is how they find Romero and this is how they end him. They take down every guard, they cut power to the house, cut every phone line, lock it down and surround him. They're an army of two and despite the short time since their first disappearance into this world, they wear this violence like a second skin. Andrew is fast, but Nathaniel is faster, and he slams Romero into the nearest wall, cracking his head against it and dazing him. The man's struggles become stunted after that and he throws him down the steps to the basement. 

"Junior." Romero chokes on the blood in his mouth, spitting it out on the concrete floor. "Never thought I'd see that pretty face again. If it weren't for the scars— you're a mirror image of your father."

Nathaniel smiles and it's _terrible_ , all jagged edges and gleaming blue eyes, and Romero shuts up. Because while he's seen that look on Nathan's face in the past, he never thought he'd see this _monster_ looking at him.

"That's fine." Nathaniel croons, pulling his knives from his own arm bands and stepping slowly up to the man trying to crawl away from him, "No, really, it is. Because I plan on laying that face to rest here tonight."

Nathaniel throws one with deadly accuracy and it lands in Romero's bicep and starts bleeding sluggishly. He throws the second and it hits the howling man in his thigh. Nathaniel chuckles as Andrew hands him two more knives and leaves the basement. While Nathaniel is out to play, Andrew is pouring gasoline and lighter fluid over every available surface in the house. Even though they both want Romero Malcolm to suffer for the danger and threat he was to their family, they would only give themselves enough the time it took for the second story to catch fire. Andrew starts at one end and makes his way through the other. 

He chooses Nathaniel's room to burn first.

When Andrew returns to the basement, Nathaniel has Romero choking through a mouthful of blood and saliva; he's cut open several arteries and let them bleed as he sliced through tendons and dragged the knives down the man's spine and incapacitated him permanently. The expression on Nathaniel's face is cold, indifferent, but the pleasant smile there is a contrast that makes Andrew's instincts _scream_ and that's when he knows it's time to go.

"I'll fucking find you, bastard—I'll fucking hunt your scrawny ass to the _ends of the fucking earth_ —" 

Romero is cursing at him, coughing and sputtering and choking on his own blood until Nathaniel steps up to him and presses both knees into his shoulders, pinning him to the floor; Romero can't even lift a hand against against him with his wrists shattered and shoulders dislocated.

"You'll be dead. Haunt me if you like, I'll never hear you." _Nathaniel_ whispers, before gripping the man's jaw and wrenching it open only to dig his knife in and cut out his tongue in the next second. "No one will hear you screaming, no one will rescue you. You're the last on my list, Romero. With you dies the last of Wesninski."

Nathaniel stands up then, grabs all his knives, and spares one last look at the wriggling soon-to-be corpse making inhuman noises through his own blood. Nathaniel smiles when he smells the fire and turns to Andrew, who's watching with a detachment borne from years of his own special brand of violence.

"Shall we?" He asks, gesturing to the basement door leading through the house.

Andrew merely takes his knives back and leads the way. They drop matches and lit rags throughout the rest of the first floor and only pause long enough to make sure the fluids catch fire. There's enough mess and collected crap in the house that it doesn't take long for the blaze to grow. In the backyard, they strip down and change into the spare clothes they brought with in a backpack, throwing the ruined clothes through a burning window and quickly take their planned escape route. 

_Neil's_ smile finally returns the further they walk. Andrew reaches between them and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together and tugging him along the sidewalk. He wants to get as far away as quickly as possible from the neighborhood and the pillar of smoke and ash where _Nathaniel Wesninski_ rests at last.

Later on, they drive a rental car to the state lines and drop it off. They keep walking after that, back to the hotel they'd checked into for this particular mission and to leave their car at; they shower, clean up, any evidence they pack up with their belongings and head out. Fifty miles north, they drop their garbage in a dumpster at a truck stop and stock up on snacks and water.

Nine hours later, they make it to Vermont, another hour later they're at a small, secluded cabin two hours from the state lines between New York and Vermont and another few from the Canadian border. It's another shell property, this time in the name of one of Janie's false identities. 

It's here where they start shedding these violent and bloodied skins. It's here where they wash away the last vestiges of _Andrew Doe_ and _Nathaniel Weskninski_. It's where they scrub the last of that tainted feeling from their flesh, the blood from their nails, the metal from their mouths, and the smell of fire from their hair. 

It's here in a cozy little cabin in the north where they put themselves back together again, where _Neil Josten_ and _Andrew Minyard_ find their way _home_ in each other.

-

It was December and they had moved on to Oregon.

Cold and wet on the coast, they had decided to take a break, three weeks in one of the less populated seaside towns. They rented a small house in the hills and were taking the chance to breathe and recuperate

Out of habit, Neil checks the exits, mentally creating escape routes and cataloguing backup plans. Once he gets upstairs to the loft bedroom, he begins hiding a few guns and more than enough knives in places they could reach with ease to defend themselves if they needed. Andrew was in the kitchen, unloading groceries they had bought, and designating a cabinet for liquor; all while on a bluetooth giving explicit instructions to his protégé on matters to be taken care of in their absence. 

In more ways than one, Andrew protected Neil, still watched his back, and (to a point) took care of him. Andrew was the last great wall stopping Neil from ever falling over the edge. 

Peeking over the loft's railing, he watched with a barely contained fondness as the man below situated their living space for the next few weeks (and privately marveled at the strangely domestic sight as well, as a man known by how he quietly and efficiently takes a life and dismantles it until there is nothing left of it). Neil would never say it aloud how much he loved to see Andrew put even the smallest bit of effort to make things feel _normal_ and like a _home_.

They are a far cry from domestic. The rare moments where they were able to sneak away from their work and have a few days to themselves, he could count on both hands from the last ten years. But he knew this was just the beginning, these few weeks away from business was the start of their slow resignation from the life they'd lived in the last decade.

"Stop it."

Neil smiled, stepping away from the railing and heading back downstairs. Planting himself against a counter's edge, he watched as Andrew started chopping vegetables and meat, the beginnings of a soup. Ever since a poisoning attempt on Neil's life a few years back, Andrew will let no one else cook his food. He can't even remember the last time they had eaten out because of Andrew's excessive protective streak. Joining in, he made himself useful by slicing up and buttering a loaf of french bread to toast in the oven, until Andrew shoved him out and told him to start a fire in the other room.

A fire. _Very funny_. 

Pouting a little at the other man for being kicked out and earning an unimpressed look from Andrew, Neil chuckled as he wandered off into the living room. In the early years of their escape and subsequent vendetta, Neil had learned to come to terms with his crippling fear of fire, mostly due to the fact they had spent the spring and summer months of their first year away camping in various campgrounds or moving from cabin to cabin in secluded locals. 

Neil stacked up wood and kindling in the massive stone fireplace carefully ( _always like a bonfire on the beach_ ), before lighting a long match and catching the newspapers he strategically tucked in between the wood cuts. He waited until the wood and paper caught before brushing his hands off and standing up, looking over his shoulder to see Andrew carelessly tossing chunks of meat and veggies in a big pot on the gas stove. 

"Can I help you?" Andrew uttered almost like a reflex, tone as bored as ever of being the center of Neil's attention. 

He couldn't help it, he really couldn't. 

They had been together for over a decade now, and still, Andrew could awe him in both his skills as his right-hand and a killer, and the mundane day-to-day life they tried to lead in between. They tried to remind themselves they were still human, that they could handle going back to a normal life, or as normal as their life had been before they started this ( _before they left Palmetto, before they left their Foxes, before they left their family_ ). 

Domesticity was an odd concept to two people who decided to pack up their lives, tuck them away, and take down the last vestiges of a crime syndicate and then destroy a yakuza empire. It wasn't easy. They had known in the beginning it wouldn't be easy, that the sacrifices they made would be worth it in the end.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Neil headed straight for Andrew and stood beside him, waiting for him to pause chopping fresh herbs and look up at him. 

"Yes or no?"

Andrew gazed up at him, eyes taking in the minute details of Neil's face, and lingering just long enough on his smirking mouth to understand what he wanted.

"Yes."

Closing the distance was instant, with a firm press of lips and a curious slide of tongue, it didn't take much for the kiss to deepen; Neil slipping his hands from Andrew's neck and into his hair and Andrew's hands firmly taking hold of his hips to drag him closer―

If they could never go home, if they had to spend the rest of their lives living in the shadows just to protect what is theirs, if all they had was this, _each other_ ―

He would still be happy. 

-

Over the years away, Neil and Andrew had not only explored the intricacies of revenge (and maybe _redemption_ ), they had explored the unending and wild intricacies of each other. 

Andrew had learned alongside Neil all the little things to set him off, new things like kisses on the tender skin of his arms or over the sharpness of his hips, marks on inner thighs made to last as a reminder until next time. He's learned that trailing hot kisses down Neil's spine is a new way to calm him, that laving his tongue across the dimples at the base of his spine earns a silly, breathy laugh (bordering on a giggle, it's truly a giggle but neither of them acknowledge it). 

Andrew knows that Neil loves to bury his face against his neck and breathe in like he's trying to wash the scent of blood from his lungs. It's inevitable some days that they both walk in the door of the newest home in transience that they both reek of blood and sweat, the screams and pleas of their victims echoing in their ears. He can brush it away easy enough, compartmentalize better than anyone; some in their organization fear him for that fact alone, calling him cold and robotic even. None of it matters when Neil is more important, however.

Neil will try to bury himself in their bed after spending an hour in the shower, after scrubbing the blood from his flesh and nails and hair (because if anything, Neil doesn't always favor a clean kill—he can be just as vicious and brutal, more so than even his father had been); he'll emerge flushed and raw, eyes alight as if he'd shed another skin in the burning water. 

Watching Neil, tracking his every movement around yet another spare apartment, a towel wrapped tight around his waist and no longer anxious about his scars, Andrew won't hesitate to pin him to the nearest surface. He won't stop kissing him, touching him, tracing every inch of him and taking him apart piece by piece. He knows all the ways to draw the perfect moan from his lips, to earn the sweetest whine and whimper from lips reddened and wet from how much Andrew will devour his mouth.

They have rarely been apart, hardly a few days at the most, an hour or two at the least. Two halves of a very chaotic whole. 

Some days, he'll think of the hours he's taken Neil against a wall, a bathroom stall, in the backseat, in a kitchen on the counter; the list is endless, because the ever insistent _need_ he has for Neil feels like an abyss. He just keeps _falling_ deeper into this wild, reckless idiot. It's ridiculous and his hatred fills every available space in his mind when he thinks of just how much he _wants_ and _craves_ the blue-eyed terror in his bed.

(Andrew remembers Palmetto and how his walls were once impenetrable.

Andrew remembers a brown-haired, brown-eyed _rabbit_ that because a fucking _problem_ in a very short time, and he briefly remembers when disliking Neil became hating Neil and when hating Neil became _hating_ him.

Andrew remembers every moment when his eyes lingered too long on Neil, following him across a room or through a crowded dance floor.)

Andrew remembers every kill he observes from the sidelines as Neil carefully takes apart his prey, expression blank except for the barest curve of his lips and the light of his eyes. 

( _He's memorized every inch of Neil's skin, made a game of kissing him senseless, made a mission out of hearing his name on a broken moan or a sigh or a choked cry of too much pleasure._ )

Here, now, he thinks about the days when they had come to their decision to return. When the relief loosened every muscle and tendon in Neil's shoulders, when his eyes were glassy with _hope_ for the first time in ten years.

-

They had an agreement. 

Whenever they eradicated another branch of the Moriyamas in the states, they would not only erase evidence of their organizations involvement, but they would send mountains of evidence to further indicate the Moriyamas as yakuza and not just a business empire to the very FBI agents that once tried to lock him away in Witness Protection. Said agents have a vague idea of who is sending them all this evidence to mount one of this biggest cases in their careers, but unfortunately, not enough evidence to bring them in. As far as they're concerned, Neil Josten is a retired exy player who decided to spend the rest of his days in obscurity with his partner and his cats.

So when, in the final years of their vendetta, they had cut and burned away the last of Ichirou's web, Andrew sends the last of the files. He destroys the wifi hotspot, wipes the laptop, tears it apart as well, and scatters the pieces along the Highway 1 as they traveled north in California. 

( _No loose ends. No weak links. No evidence._ )

Around them, they have built an empire of their own, with ranks so tight very few left alive have seen their faces. They spent a decade building an organization meant to destroy another, their connections untraceable, their associates loyal to the bone to someone who is nothing but a figurehead. When they decide to officially hand over the reigns, to begin the slow reintegration back into civilian life, they give one warning only: _do not betray us_. 

It was Andrew who initiated the start of their return. It was a simple text message to Robin, and (from Neil) it was a postcard to Dan and Matt, and then (from both of them) a simple letter to Kevin.

Over the course of another year they quietly prepared the Foxes for their return and to give themselves time to breathe and to find their way back, to accept the changes they had gone through in their time away; they sent postcards, and letters, and photos, and emails, and sometimes gave a phone call from various burner phones.

Wymack was the least surprised, chewed them out only a little, and told them to come home in time for Christmas dinner at his and Abby's. Dan and Matt were excited, and angry, but the first to accept them home. Nicky cried throughout the first phone call Neil had with him, then hung-up on Neil, then called again five minutes later to yell at him and Andrew; but he was relieved. 

Kevin, of course, was beyond disappointed, because Neil and Andrew _could have been Court_ , but he knew the why and never spoke of it again. Neil wasn't privy to the conversation between Andrew and Aaron, but he figured the twins would work it out in time. Allison was irritated with them, but that didn't stop her from making sure they had a safe place to call home when they returned. Renee merely smiled at them both via Skype from somewhere in South America, and told them _"I'll see you at Christmas."_

Last but not least, Neil called Robin.

She was furious and he could hear the tears in her voice, but she was also hopeful. She wanted her mentor back, she wanted her best friend back, and she wanted to know whether or not Andrew still liked Walker Blue. Neil had laughed, asked how she was doing, asked how her team was doing, and whether the newest generation of Foxes were still as wild as the last.

Several months later in October, Andrew buys a new Maserati in California. He's as stone-faced as ever about it, but Neil can see the subtle drop in his shoulders, the softening of the lines around his eyes, the upwards twitch of his lips. Andrew Minyard is not a materialistic man nor a vain one, but something about the power of a Gran Turismo in his hands seems to put the closest thing to a smile on Andrew's lips that Neil has ever seen (besides himself). Some things never change. 

It's early December when they finally pack up their favorite cabin on the coast. They clean the place to within an inch of its life, burn what can be burned (which is everything with a little gasoline and light fluid), and donate the things they can't pack away. True to form, everything they carry with them fits in a duffel bag each. The only additions to that tradition are two long, black, rectangular guitar cases hiding their favorite weapons, their personal collections of knives and guns. They load up the trunk, throw sleeping bags, blankets, and pillows in the back seat, and leave.

They drive down Highway 1 with the windows down to breathe in the freezing ocean air and Neil has a camera in hand for whenever they stop for a break. This time, he wants to document everything because at last he can. Because their freedom has no strings attached anymore, and their only destination is _home_ , he wants to remember things in a better light. Rather than hotel rooms, they use cabins they find along the way, using safe houses they had established in every state they pass through. They don't argue about routes, and always take the lesser highways when they can because some habits die hard and survival will always be a priority even now.

On Highway 80, Andrew lets loose. He has the ghost of a smirk on his lips as the speedometer hikes up from 65 to 85 to 105 through the Utah and Wyoming. It takes them six hours to get through Nebraska instead of twelve. The whole way, Neil tries very hard to keep the knowing grin off his face, because he feels like he's 19 all over again when he and Andrew would take long drives across South Carolina on the weekends. 

As they travel across the midwest and Neil watches the landscapes and cityscapes pass by in a blur between stops for gas, food and rest, he thinks about the last decade more deeply than he needs to. He had come to terms with the path they took ages ago, and knew it be a bloody one, and he especially knew that one day later on down the line that he would have nightmares. 

But things were different now. They had changed since the night they left their lives behind, since they decided to leave everything in a kind of stasis and he hoped beyond hope (what a curious and dangerous thing it is now, to feel it and acknowledge it) that they could pick up those threads and continue weaving a future for themselves.

He thinks about the men he killed, whose lives he ended with his bare hands. He thinks about Andrew tugging on his leash, keeping him from the edge of insanity and reminding him that he was still a human beneath the facade of crime syndicate leader. He thinks about Ichirou and cutting off the last head of the hydra. 

He thinks about the fact that his hands no longer shake when he thinks of blood and gore, and his chest no longer constricts when he remembers his mother's dying breaths. 

-

When he buys the new Maserati, it's an odd thing for him to feel something akin to nostalgia. 

But that's exactly what it is, nothing but nostalgia and familiarity, and the first of sign that this part of their life was done, and that it was time for them to return what they had left behind. He had no regrets (useless sentiment), he had no shame (pointless, because he did not care enough for that), and he felt no guilt for the lives he ended in Neil's stead. He understood that Neil wanted to give them a future without strings, a chance to breathe without the taste of blood at the back of their throats. 

Andrew remembers every kill between himself and Neil, and even now when they're on their way back to pick up the pieces of their old life, he knows the images will never fade and yet, will never affect him. He's the embodiment of apathy and the only thing that's ever made him feel alive besides the edge of a rooftop in South Carolina is sitting next to him in the passenger seat. If Nicky were here, his cousin would make a stupid arm candy joke and he'd have to resist knifing him out of irritation alone. Now he's speeding down a highway between Illinois state lines and compartmentalizing, packing up these bloody memories and tucking them away with the rest of the monsters lurking in the shadows. 

They aren't much older now, they're in their thirties, still with so much time left and the prospect of a future ahead of them. But he'll be the first to admit that the years have changed them. Body and mind, they are different beasts now, different _monsters_ , as it were. 

It didn't mean they couldn't embrace a quiet life again. It didn't mean they couldn't put the two-man war behind them and vanish from one life to emerge in the next.

(Ending a life meant nothing to him because it was always for a reason. He never did anything unless there was a purpose behind it and whether a bargain was attached to it. He had a preference for the sharpest blades and his own quick reflexes, but the first time he made the decision to kill, he chose a car for the catalyst.

When he first learned to drive, it was a means to an end; it meant freedom and escape, and the faster he pressed the pedal, the faster he could get away from the seemingly endless cycle of pain, broken promises, and fake family.

It was only fitting that when he put himself in a vehicle with _her_ and pulled all the right strings to make the risk _worth it,_ that her inevitable death would enable him to purchase the keys to a freedom again.)

It felt like breathing for the first time again. Getting behind the wheel and turning the ignition, gripping the leather steering wheel as the engine purred around them. Once more, that nostalgic sensation hit him, alongside the feeling of being _alive_ and filled with a boundless energy once again. When Neil slid into the seat next to him, shot him a smile as he buckled up, Andrew reached for him and dragged him closer with two fingers hooked in his collar, claimed his stupid smiling mouth with a hunger he would never express with words.

_Mine_ , it said, _ours_ , and _let's go_ _home_.

A new Maserati, a different beast compared to the first, and yet it still felt like an extension of himself. Something sleek and dangerous, a pretty metal container for all his rage and skill, where all the energy thrumming in his veins could be expelled with every press of the pedal and controlled shift of gears. Because it's the control he lived for, had learned to survive with, and used to keep them both from succumbing to bloodlust and insanity.

They're on a new road now with only one destination in mind. Home means something different now. It's not just a place or a person ( _you, me, us_ ), it was a feeling they fought to protect all these years.

-

When they finally arrive at the Columbia house in the later hours, the porch light is on but otherwise the house is dark. 

They leave their things in the Maserati for now, heading to the front door and standing there for a few minutes, both of them tired and beyond the point of sleep deprivation. Neil takes a fortifying breath and knocks first, before stepping back and shoving his hands in his coat pockets. It's quiet for another minute and then the sound of a dull thud sounds through the door, then running feet and the hurried sounds of locks clicking and finally, _finally_ the door wrenches open to the wide-eyed, open-mouthed expression of Robin Cross. 

It's another long moment before she moves aside to let them in, checking behind them curiously before slamming the door shut and following them into the living room. The two of them stand there surveying the scene before them; one of blankets and air mattresses and pillows strewn everywhere, where a sleeping group of former Foxes and their offspring have all piled into the space created by furniture pushed against the walls. 

Neil didn't realize he was holding his breath until it came out in a rush and he ran a hand he didn't know was trembling through his messy hair. Andrew stands with his arms crossed over his chest and there's an air of amusement about him that no one but Neil would sense. 

The scene itself is heartwarming, if a bit overwhelming to see and to know that their family had waited for them. Neil understood there'd be hell to pay, but he decided that saving it for the morning would be better. The fondness for his loved ones that he'd buried deep surfaced with a vengeance as his eyes jumped from familiar face to familiar face, and he had to bite his lip to ground himself again before the sudden floor of unfamiliar emotions to wreck him.

"Neil. Andrew." Robin's soft voice leads them to the kitchen, where she pulls out a bench belonging to a new, longer table and starts pulling out leftovers to heat up, dishes and silverware, and unsurprisingly, a new bottle of Walker Blue.

She sits after making sure they both have enough and her eyes flit between the two, taking in their very presence; her face is almost a mask, but the disbelief and hope is clear in her eyes.

"You're both jerks." She finally cracks, just as her voice hitches a little when she tries to breathe and calm herself at the same time. He can tell she wants to say more, that she's bursting at the seams ready to scream and yell and tear at them for leaving. He's proud of her, because it means that despite the years apart, she has grown and changed as well, and learned to adapt.

Neil's signature half-smile returns and she has to swallow hard to keep from throwing something at him, "I know." He says, taking another bite and another swallow of whiskey. "I'm sorry it took so long to come home."

Robin pursed her lips, eyes narrowing at him for a moment, "You're not sorry, not yet at least."

Andrew looked up at her then, one brow arched somewhat imperiously, "We'll see."

"Of course."

They finish up eating and Andrew disappears outside to retrieve their bags and cases, quietly taking things upstairs to their old room. Robin confessed that no one had used the bedroom, but she had kept it cleaned and had put fresh sheets and blankets on the bed that morning. 

"It's been a long time. Are you satisfied now?" Robin watches him carefully, gauging him in that quiet way of hers that sometimes reminded him of Andrew.

Neil doesn't answer immediately, instead looking over his shoulder towards the doorway, where a minute later Andrew appears, having discarded his coat and armbands alike in favor of rolling up the sleeves of his black button-down shirt. Neil can't help but stare a little at the open collar, appreciating the glimpse of a pale column of neck and sharp collarbones. He sensed a shift then, returning his gaze back to Robin and catching her curious look; she had caught that, she had realized something was _different_ about her two oldest friends and mentors.

"Yes." Neil answered finally, "We are."

-

Andrew wakes first. 

It's slow coming to because he hadn't realized how exhausted he'd been, but his body feels rested for once and he doesn't feel as if there's an someone looming over him with a knife. His instincts are quiet and the warmth at his side is more calming than he'll admit (ten years later, and Neil still jokes that Andrew is allergic to people). Rubbing at his eyes and combing a hand through his unruly hair, he turns his head just enough to see a scatter of auburn waves on his left shoulder, only then noticing the soft, sleepy breaths against his skin.

The scars on Neil's face have faded over the years, smoothing out and becoming easier to hide beneath layers of make-up if needed. It was rare Neil didn't wear something to keep his face from being recognizable, but in the year since ending their siege against the Moriyamas with their army of two, Neil became less and less concerned with disguises and slowly, the two of them shed their masks. Neil decided it was time to come home, and at last, they were here. The remnants of dye had been cut off, the colored contacts discarded, their natural features revealed for the first time in so many years.

Twelve years had done their damage to both of them, but somehow, Neil's features were still a little smooth but made sharper, eyes lined from smiles both genuine and vicious, lips a little chapped; Andrew would never say it out loud, he didn't have to, but Neil was still handsome, still something of a pretty little bastard. He still pissed-off and exasperated Andrew to no end, but after all they had done, there was no one else he would take. 

Neil was _it_ , a beginning and an end.

It was only after he reached over to comb his fingers through Neil's hair, the strands reflecting the late morning sun filtering in from the window, that his partner started waking. When bleary, sleep-heavy eyes slowly blinked awake, something stirred in his chest when those icy-blues seemed to glow when they focused on him and he immediately covered them with his hand.

"I wasn't even staring." Neil croaked, a smile already threatening to split his lips.

"You started to." Andrew intoned, then using the action as an excuse to run his hand through Neil's hair again. "I can hear them downstairs."

At that, Neil tensed, but he relaxed with a slow, resigned breath. Instead of moving off the bed, he curled up into Andrew's side, hiding his face in the pillow. It was how he pulled himself together, readied himself with his armor and his walls, how he could face a day that would end in death. But today it was not an enemy they were planning to take out, it wasn't another mission to destroy another piece of the web now long gone. 

It was seeing their family, their Foxes in one place for the first time in over a decade. It was seeing Dan and Matt and meeting their children, it was seeing Kevin and David and the newest addition to their own little family, it was seeing Allison, Nicky and Aaron, and Renee. 

It took him a second to realize Neil was letting go, getting ready to strip away every mask they had worn, every lie they had said, every skin they had created to survive their own private war and make it alive to this point. 

(Because what was the point of everything they had done if the life and family they were fighting for was forbidden to them? This is was the light at the end of the tunnel, the end that justified the means; all those stupid cliches about finally _making it_.

They've seen some shit, they've done great and terrible things, and it wouldn't be lost on their Foxes to see that they're a little more feral at the edges than they used to be.)

"Andrew." Neil's voice had finally found itself and Andrew pulled himself from his pensive thoughts, eyes returning to his partner's face to find the idiot _staring_. He wanted to roll his eyes, but resisted. "Yes or no?"

"Yes." Andrew murmured as he closed the short distance between them, claiming Neil's mouth as he eased him flat on the mattress and covered that lithe body with his own. 

He erased every inch of space between them, pressing their bodies flush together as he deepened the kiss, putting everything he was thinking and possibly feeling into the slide of lips and tongues. They were okay, they were safe at last, they were _home_ and they would never leave again.

When they finally broke away, Andrew dropped his forehead against Neil's, relishing quietly in the reassurance that this was real. That Neil was real. That ten years later and the stupid, wild, dangerous man beneath him was still his. 

"Shall we?" Neil whispered between their mouths, lips brushing as he spoke.

Andrew gave a curt nod, then rolled off of him to stand from the bed, the action both deceptively easy and a very obvious show of how in control Andrew was of his body. Instead of getting dressed, he dug around in both their bags for loose lounge pants, and two familiar faded orange hoodies. Neil smiled fondly when Andrew threw a pair and a hoodie at him, lifting the obnoxiously colored hoodie up to see his old number emblazoned on the back with _JOSTEN_ along the shoulders. Something in his chest finally loosened up, allowed him to breathe much better than he had in a long time. They dressed in the comfier clothes quickly and without a sound, Andrew opened the bedroom door to let Neil venture into the bathroom first. 

Andrew could hear the quiet chatter downstairs, hear the sounds of pants and sizzling bacon, smell the food wafting up from the kitchen. He wanted to go down there and take over, to make sure whatever food was in prep wasn't a danger to Neil, but he had to hold himself back. It was important to Neil that they go down there together, face their family together as one unit. 

When Neil came out, he took his turn to wash up and pointedly ignored his reflection, knowing he didn't need to waste time staring at himself. He knew what he looked like; a slice through his left eyebrow and a jagged line that followed at his jaw from when he'd turned his face just enough to avoid losing his eye, a nose piercing with a silver ring that had at first been part of a disguise two years before but he ended up keeping because Neil had liked it so much, various nicks and cuts from stupid men who tried to fight back and lost or from sparring sessions with Neil or other subordinates, and a smattering of light freckles across his nose made a little more obvious from the fading tan he'd gotten during their summer in California. 

He stepped out a few minutes later to find Neil lingering beside the door waiting for him. They simply stared at each other, taking in their features, older, wiser, sharper; then Neil held up his open hand and Andrew took it to lead the way downstairs.

-

Neil had been prepared for an Inquisition, and he was right to be, but suddenly being thrown into a pile of air mattresses, large floor pillows, and blankets, only to be piled onto in the attempts by the Foxes to all hug him at once― he wasn't expecting that. After a few minutes of everyone trying to yell or talk at him, Andrew finally ordered them off in a low voice, the quiet rumbling command of it causing the group to freeze. Smiling in apology, Neil allowed Andrew to drag him to his feet again and he stood beside the blonde at a loss for words. 

It was Renee, when she stepped in from the kitchen with one of her smiles and a spatula in hand, that broke the silence and announced, "Breakfast, everyone."

During their time away, it seems the Columbia house had gone through several changes. New, plushier furniture, a longer dining table with benches on either side to accommodate more bodies, darker curtains and shades instead of blinds, and fresh paint in the main rooms. Somehow, it felt cozier, warmer, like the house had transitioned from a weekend drop spot to a true _home_. Neil knew after a cursory glance and later a thorough look at the place, that leaving it in Robin's hands had been the right choice.

Breakfast was loud and ridiculous, between the addition of three kids, Wymack and Abby, and at some point Bee making an appearance, they transitioned from breakfast to lunch over the course of a several hours. Curiosities were assuaged, purposely watered-down explanations made, and while the whole truth was stripped to the bare minimum, it was quietly understood that digging deeper was unacceptable. Neil didn't want to burden their family with the truths of what they had done, he didn't want them hit with grief or guilt, nor did he want to spoil the lightness he felt in this moment. 

Kevin is oddly quiet throughout the morning, only breaking his silence when Andrew kicks him under the table. The glare he sends the blonde lacks any real heat and he returns his attention to Neil and starts speaking to him in French. Neil smiles, feels the glare from Andrew beside him, but responds anyway.

_"Is it really done?"_ Kevin asks, a fragile hope lacing his words.

_"Yes. It's done."_ Neil's smile breaks into a lopsided grin, _"I wanted a future without strings for us. I wanted to protect all of you from any potential backlash."_

Kevin frowned, _"How do you know there won't be any backlash from the last decade?"_

Neil opened his mouth to answer, but Andrew cut him off, shocking Kevin into speechlessness when he also spoke in French. 

_"There is no one left for that."_

Kevin choked on a piece of waffle, Matt snorted, and Dan merely arched a fine brow at the three of them. Neil let his hand drop from the table and rest on Andrew's leg. Six years ago, Neil had sat Andrew down and started teaching him French; alongside the German that Andrew was already fluent in, the Russian they had started teaching each other during Neil's second year at Palmetto, and the basic Japanese they had learned during a short stay in Japan.

Wymack huffed his amusement, "Well, well, some things do change."

Laughter filled the room then, easing the tension in the group and allowing conversation to flow naturally between the nostalgia and the contentment shared amongst the older Foxes. Neil's eyes darted down briefly when he felt Andrew's hand rest over his and squeeze gently, the lingering glance they shared conveyed all that needed to be said.

_Home_.

-

A few days before Christmas, while most of the older Foxes were out finishing the last of their holiday shopping, Neil and Andrew had retreated to the backyard. 

It's cold outside, almost freezing and yet, the two of them were in thermal henley shirts, loose sweatpants, workout shoes, and nothing else. They walk a casual circle to create their space, a border they are not allowed to cross in their unspoken laws, the puff of their slow breaths stark white in the air and the switch from calm to lethal was instant.

With limbs loose but muscles coiled for action, the two circled each other like predators, watching and waiting for the first strike. It was always Neil. He'd either throw the first punch or swing the first kick and Andrew would be ready for him. They had broken it down to a science, to raw instinct and perfect symphony. They were the only two people alive who could really land hits on each other; anyone before who had managed to did not live for much more than a moment or two after.

They sensed more than saw that someone was watching them after the first couple hours. One became two, became three, and when they were done, had worked up a healthy sweat with pounding hearts, flushed skin, and satisfaction in every line of their bodies— the pair finally looked up at the back porch to see Robin, Matt, and Aaron all standing quietly, a myriad of emotions coloring their faces.

Neil and Andrew glanced at each other, before grabbing their water bottles from the grass and walking towards the trio staring at them. 

"Close your mouth, Boyd, you're drooling." Neil breaks the silence first, a lopsided smirk and teasing glint in his eyes as he took the porch steps two at a time with ease. 

"Whatever— what the _fuck_ was that, Josten?!" Matt exclaimed, clearly stuck between looking awed and terrified at such a display of skill.

Neil shrugged, holding the back door open for Andrew and watching after the blonde as he disappeared inside, "A little sparring session, nothing much."

Aaron narrowed his eyes at him, pressing his lips together in a thin line, his burning curiosity plain on his face. Robin was watching him with a look that reminded him of Renee, the only difference being the tell-tale way she bit her lip and had a slight crease of thoughtfulness between her brows. Neil gave threw them all a smile before he headed inside to shower off. 

As he gathered some clean, comfortable clothes to wear around the house for the night, he wasn't surprised to find Andrew waiting for him in the bathroom. It was rare they didn't shower together these days, it had become a necessity that over time became more of an excuse for time alone than anything else. As they both slipped under the hot steam and Neil immediately grabbed the shampoo to wash Andrew's unruly blonde hair, he let his thoughts drift.

Sparring was a regular ritual for them now, every other day when possible, at least twice a week otherwise. It was another instance of 'normal', something to hold onto from their days at Palmetto. He could admit that their version of sparring was more than just training their bodies, it was to push each other to be better, to be stronger, to _survive_. 

It was part of how they had become such a horrifying pair to their enemies. 

(But there were no enemies left. Would they still need these skills? Would they still strip down to the barest layers and test one another's limits, break any old expectations? He knew they would. 

Just as the traumas of their youth had taken time to settle and fade to the deepest reaches of their minds, he knew that these skills, these newfound abilities they had given themselves would take just as long if not more to put away.)

-

At 2:30am, it's unusually quiet in the Columbia house. 

It's Christmas eve and the only lights on are strings of colored lights around the tree, icicle lights going up the bannister, and whatever other obnoxiously festive holiday lights Nicky could find and hang-up throughout the house. Scented pinecones are strategically scattered in all the rooms, the scent of the tree itself has fully saturated the house since it was placed in a corner of the living room just two weeks prior. 

The massive thing was so very much a _Fox_ tree, between the lower branches decorated by the children with popcorn strings and clay ornaments they painted themselves and the occasional painted bulb, the middle of it full of more traditional ornaments with elaborate glass orbs and stars, and the top; photo frame ornaments were home to various photos of the Foxes over the years, either taken from their social media accounts, during family gatherings, or candid shots captured by one another. Overall, it was a beautiful tree, with a painstakingly made bright orange and white paper-mâché fox sitting pretty as the 'star'.

Neil had ventured down to get a glass of water, having been ordered out of the room with softened laughter when Andrew decided it was time to wrap Neil's presents at last. Twenty minutes later, he was propped against the edge of the long dining table and sipping his water, a tiny smile having stolen his lips at the scene in the living room; between their tree and the puddle of his family on the living room floor, it brought a much-needed warmth to his chest that he had long thought would never return. 

When he and Andrew had packed up and cut all ties with this life, he had eventually come to terms with the idea that they might never have this again. He knew there would be a price to pay for their vendetta, and he figured that price would be sacrificing his own life for the lives of everyone under this room and then some. 

His gaze jumped from each sleeping face that he could see. Kevin curled up on the couch now pushed far out of the way, Dan and Matt curled up on an air mattress barely long enough for Matt's long legs, Nicky and Erik tangled together on another one, Allison and Renee somehow sharing the recliner but not at all looking uncomfortable for it; he knew the kids were all sequestered in Nicky's room down the hall, while Aaron and Kaitlyn were upstairs in the other twin's room, and if he was quiet enough, he could hear the muted rustle of wrapping paper coming from Andrew's room.

Neil recognized the warmth in his chest as _home_ , and he felt settled again for the first time in a decade, content to sit and guard his Foxes even now.

It's not until he hears nothing at all besides various bodies breathing that he looks up and sees Andrew approaching from the hallway. Moving to put his glass in the sink, he turns around only to be boxed in by muscled arms on either side of his hips gripping the edge of the sink. Andrew's in his space, crowding close and staring at him intently, and he can't help the smile as sharp as a knife's edge curving his lips when those eyes drop to his mouth. He'll never get over Andrew's fascination with his mouth, nor has he ever grown out of his neck fetish— but honestly, he's confident enough to admit he didn't want to grow out of it.

"You take forever." Andrew whispered, the low, quiet rumble of his voice enough to melt Neil's insides instantly, no matter what. "I thought you drowned in the sink."

Neil rested his hands on Andrew's hips for a minute, smiling more as he smoothed them up and under the black tank top the other wore, feeling the hard lines of muscle and the scars collected since they'd left. Andrew was still watching his mouth, catching every swipe of his tongue across his lower lip; all while his thumbs made lazy circles in the sharp V between Andrew's hips.

"How embarrassing would that be? Spend ten years taking down a criminal empire only to accidentally drown in a kitchen sink. Pathetic." Neil chuckled, keeping his voice low and barely able to keep a sultry note out of it as he slid his hands further under the tank, fingers splaying over Andrew's abdomen and tapping playfully. "Our men would be so disappointed, and our family—"

"Would be completely unsurprised." Andrew finished, both of his brows rising in telltale sign of amusement, "Reynolds might have an old bet on it."

Neil affected a thoughtful expression as Andrew moved in closer to press a kiss to his jaw, "You're probably right. I'll have to ask her later."

Andrew pointedly trailed kisses from his chin and along his jawline, giving gentle nips between his words, "Emphasis on _later_. I want you back upstairs, far from any lethal kitchen sinks."

The delighted grin he earned for that was an unfamiliar sight, one Andrew hadn't seen in years. 

Wordlessly removing Neil's venturing hands from his shirt and placing his arms around his own neck, Andrew reached down to grip Neil's thighs firmly to lift him up, where those runner's legs wrapped tightly around his waist in response. Andrew barely broke contact with his neck as he carried Neil silently out of the kitchen and down the hall towards the stairs, not even pausing to set Neil down, but instead carrying him up the steps without missing a beat. Neil tamped down on his amusement, trying hard not to laugh nor giggle incessantly about being a grown man (a former, notorious syndicate leader, even) being carried upstairs like a bride by his partner.

It wasn't a bad way to spend their first Christmas home, because they knew it wouldn't be their last.

Such thoughts made the unraveling all the more sweeter to them, their touches softer, kisses less hurried and more languid and slow, all of their desire and need of each other beginning the process of smoothing the hardest of their edges.

(Because—

_They were lost, they were lost, they were lost—_

_They were found_.)

-


	9. how to destroy angels / aftg wings au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's unreal, and the disbelief he thinks is misplaced. He knew the stories, knew the legends, but he didn't think that this is what Neil had been on the run for, hiding and living a lie for.

They're in the bathroom of Matt and Neil's dorm and Neil looks like he's about to bolt if the panic on his face is any indication (Andrew catches a glimpse of silver in the mirror and the burn of curiosity he feels is unknown and unfamiliar and he buries it to think about/figure out later because he's finally got Neil fucking Josten right where he wants him). 

He's wearing a peculiar kind of harness under his baggy t-shirt and Andrew is just glaring at him quite pointedly because he wants to see everything. He wants every little bit of truth and Neil finally gets the hint to  _"take it off, Josten"_ and so he does, and it's the first time Andrew's face registers any sort of visible surprise (how his eyes widen, his throat works itself, his mouth―). 

It's unreal, and the disbelief he thinks is misplaced. He knew the stories, knew the legends, but he didn't think that this is what Neil had been on the run for, hiding and living a lie for. 

"Wings." Andrew deadpans. "You have wings."

Neil gives a weak little shrug (the wings flutter, nervously stretching out before snapping closed against his back again), fisting his t-shirt in one hand, the suppressing harness in another. "Yeah. From—" He swallows and like it hurts, like the memories burn when he thinks of it, "My mother. Her family."

The appendages are small, barely a six foot wingspan when the two silvery things twitch and stretch out again from Neil's shoulders. Out of all the things Andrew had expected Neil to be hiding, this was not it.

"Yes or no?"

Neil bit his lip, both wings shuddering, feathers rustling softly as they expanded out over his shoulders, almost enveloping Andrew as well, like he knew what the blonde was asking of him.

"...yes."

Andrew reached out slowly, carefully, digging his fingers into the feathered plumage and stroking the unique musculature beneath the soft feathers. They almost felt like air, and Andrew wondered if clouds felt like this as he combs his fingers through the left wing and then the right wing. He's thinking how impossible this is, and in the next second he remembers this is _Neil fucking Josten_ , the lie incarnate, the threat to every promise and deal he's with to his family.

"Wings." Andrew utters it like an afterthought, a quiet thing said aloud while Neil shivers under his touch. "My my, as unpredictable as you are unreal."

Neil can't stop the trembling in his wings, let alone the way his own limbs are fighting his control. The truth of his heritage is the very root of his lie; he's always wanted to cut them off, tear them away and suffer the excruciating pain of dismemberment if it meant keeping his father from catching him and using him. 

He remembers his mother and the mantra she beat into his head for near ten years of endless limbo. 

_Don't trust anyone. You are a myth. Don't trust anyone, Abram_.

Andrew is in his space then, inches from his face while those fucking hands are buried in the juncture where his wings connect to his back; gripping hard and sure, there's no way Andrew doesn't feel the shift of muscle and sinew, bone and cartilage when Neil's wings fold around both of them―not only to protect himself, but to hide them―it's instinct to use his wings like a shield and here he is, allowing Andrew into that tiny circle of protection. 

_He's so fucked._  

But the warmth spreading from his feathers, from Andrew's hands combing through them, it makes him shudder and the distance between them is lessened. The gaping wound of distrust and destruction is stapled shut one truth at a time.

"Yes or no?" Andrew asks again, invading Neil's personal space in a way neither would allow otherwise. Curiosity is a fragile and tenuous thing between them, but it is necessary, it is required, it is tantamount that such a thing is satisfied or Neil would never make it out of palmetto alive, he wouldn't finish out the night let alone the semester leading up to the ravens match.

"Yes." Neil blinked, and in the next second between Andrew's hands tangling further in his feathers and stepping mere inches into his space, he saw nothing but the bright gold of Andrew's eyes before warm lips pressed to his.

The warring sensations between shock, surprise, and the sudden flood of warmth from his wings being touched was overwhelming. His hands hurt from clenching so tightly around his shirt and harness, his heart was pounding in his chest, and his blood was rushing in his ears. There was so much happening at once and he couldn't parse it all fast enough. He folded his wings closer around them, forcing himself to relax into the kiss, his eyes falling closed when Andrew's lowered, every cell of his being focused entirely on the meet of their lips.

Neil almost followed the blonde when Andrew pulled away and looked around at the small cocoon of feathers surrounding them both. There was that twitch at the corner of Andrew's lips before he removed his hands from the plumage and stepped away from Neil. Swallowing hard and feeling more than a little dazed, Neil folded his wings behind his back again and waited, wondering why he felt like he was standing on a precipice every time he interacted with Andrew.

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the tipping point.

He didn't realize he was staring down at Andrew's hands until one of them came up and took hold of his chin, swiping a thumb slowly across Neil's bottom lip. Snapping his eyes back up to Andrew's face, he saw something there, something beyond the mania and the medications and the brutality Andrew showcased in his need to keep up his bargains. But it was gone in a blink.

"You gave Kevin your game, give me your back." Andrew whispered, "I'll keep you alive long enough to finish the year and beat the Ravens."

Neil gaped at him, not sure he heard him right. But there was no way he misheard because Andrew was staring at him quite intently, waiting for his answer. In all the years on the run, he had been protected by his mother, shielded and sequestered away across 22 countries and so many cities he stopped counting. How the fuck could this one man, this five-foot-even menace of a goalkeeper and psychotic little asshole think he could do what his mother died for?

Well. He was already on a timer, the clock counting down until he would leave, and run for the FBI, tell them everything and disappear into the red tape bureaucracy. But if trusting Andrew meant keeping himself anchored long enough to finish out the year, if it meant being able to keep exy and keep the Foxes just a little longer―

"Okay." Neil breathed the word out with a shuddering exhale, "I'll give you my back."

The wide, lethal smile on Andrew's lips was anything but reassuring. However, when he held out a hand and crooked one finger, Neil hesitantly unfolded a wing and stretched it out to rest the longest of his feathers in Andrew's outstretched hand. Neil gazed on as Andrew leaned forward again, this time cradling the feathers to his cheek, all while keeping his eyes firmly on locked with Neil's.

"You know, I've heard angels were the greatest liars of all." Andrew crooned, tugging gently on the feathers in his hands and earning a reflexive twitch in return, "Perhaps I'll make an honest one of you yet."  
  
-

Neil wakes him up with a few quiet whispers of his name.   
  
He learned early on that touching Andrew in his sleep usually ends in bruises or broken lips. Muttering angrily and taking the cigarette Neil's already lit for him, Neil coaxes him into dressing warmly, taking his keys, and following the moron outside to the car. The night before, Neil said he wanted to show Andrew something and soon they were driving out out town, away from Palmetto and to the outskirts of the city. They find a wooded wildlife area and after parking, the pair are trudging along a trail in the early dawn, the sky above slowly turning from the black of night to the dark blues of sunrise.  
  
When Neil takes him off the path and into a copse of trees, he drops onto the ground in the grass and watches as Neil meanders into a patch of growing light filtering in through the tree tops. He arches a brow when Neil strips off his coat, sweater, and shirt piece by piece, and then the suppressing harness, stretching out the silvery appendages on his back. Neil finally turns a little, catching Andrew's eye with a smile, before turning into the sun. Andrew froze.  
  
(—because he couldn't see the sunlight was getting brighter and brighter with every minute, and Neil was standing in the shafts of light and for one, tiny, infinitesimal second Andrew thought Neil was gone and his mind screamed, his chest constricted, he couldn't breathe and something in him cracked—)  
  
As soon as the dawn sun light hit the white feathers of Neil's wings, they absolutely glowed. It was unreal and his next immediate thought was how much he wanted to kill this idiot for catching his interest, for holding his fascination and constantly surprising him. Andrew hated Neil. He was going to kill him one day, but today probably wasn't it.   
  
Hated the way his scars were stories, hated the flush of his skin after a shower, hated that irritating smile Neil saved just for Andrew, hated the softness of his wings, the silvery glow of feathers. None of this should be possible. None of this should be real.  
  
Neil was an impossibility made of flesh, blood, and bone; and Andrew knew all the ways to take him apart with his hands and mouth alone. Andrew was the only one allowed to learn every detail and nuance of Neil's being. But this? This was—he didn't have words for it. He watched on with a concentrated effort to look as bored as possible, but internally, his thoughts were at war.   
  
Neil stretched out his wings, letting them flap and beat until he got a few inches off the ground before dropping again. He grunted a little with the effort, a tight frown marring his features.  
  
"What kind of angel are you if you can't fly, Josten?" Andrew calls out, the mockery lacing every word.   
  
Neil flips him off and Andrew snorts, standing and stubbing out his cigarette against the bottom of his combat boot. He wanders over to Neil seemingly without intent, but his eyes were glued to the way Neil's wings flare out and upwards, reaching to the sky as if soaking in the sun for warmth. Andrew holds his hands out expectantly and Neil smiles a little, folding his wings down as he steps closer to rest the lengthiest feathers in Andrew's open hands.  
  
His curiosity doesn't show on his face, but he can tell Neil is shocked by gentleness in which Andrew is threading his fingers through the glowing mass of them. They look gold and silver in the sun, as ethereal and beautiful as the mythologies say they are.   
  
"Still a dream." Andrew says, reaching up to comb his fingers carefully through the deeper, downy feathers at the base of his wings, "Still so unreal."  
  
Neil smiled, that stupid, irritating, frustrating smile, "Still not a hallucination."  
  
Andrew flicks him an unimpressed look, still occupied as he is with stroking through the softer bits, "still an idiot."  
  
The smile never left Neil's face, and Andrew continued to play with the appendages, exploring the muscle and structure of them, the very anatomy of something considered holy by some standards. Not once did Andrew miss the minute reactions, every twitch and shudder, every pleasant little shiver and the goosebumps down Neil's arms. Observing that, Andrew kept one hand buried in feathers and the other, he trailed slowly down Neil's arm, from shoulder to wrist, which he grabbed hold of and pressed his fingers to the pulse point.   
  
Neil's heart was beating quick, earning a razor sharp smirk from Andrew when Neil made a noise at him. Pressing into Neil's personal space, he held that bright blue gaze as he slid his other hand from a wing to the back of Neil's neck.   
  
"Yes or no, Abram?" Andrew murmured, a secret satisfaction filling him when Neil shook out his wings and folded them around the two of them, casting them in a soft silvery glow that further emphasized the ice in Neil's eyes.  
  
"Yes."  
  
When they meet halfway for a kiss, he wonders if all angels taste like sweet sunlight and cigarettes, if they all have a death wish and smart-ass mouths. He wonders if all angels kiss like the world is ending and this is the last taste of paradise they'll ever have.   
  
He stops wondering about other angels when he allows Neil's hands to tangle in his hair and dexterous wingtips press against his back to bring him closer, because he doesn't need any other angels when he has one right here, whispering his name like an oath and a prayer.  
  
-

The first person to learn about his scars is, surprisingly, Abby.

It was long before the mandatory team check-ups would occur, thankfully, and he made her _swear_ several times over to never question what she was soon to see, never tell a fucking soul what she was about to witness. Her muted reaction to his scars gave him a minimal flare of irritation, but it was to be expected. 

Her reaction to his _wings_? That was something entirely.

They were tattered and weak, his feathers shabby and thin after having been harnessed under his loose clothing almost non-stop since his mother's untimely death.

"Neil…" Abby's voice was a hoarse whisper, shock numbing her body in whole as her eyes widened and her jaw dropped.

Neil looked away, one arm folded across his stomach and the other tugging absently at one of the leather straps across his chest.

"You can't tell anyone. You can't speak of this, period." The steel in his voice was enough to make her teeth clack hard when Abby snapped her mouth shut.

A frown knitted her features together and after several moments of hesitation, she gave a slow nod, acknowledging his demand.

"Neil. I need you to remove the harness." 

His eyes snapped back to her face, ready to fight her to keep it on, "I can't—"

Abby held up a hand, shaking her head, "I need to do a full body examination, Neil. That includes those. Your anatomy is unique but not unfamiliar to me. Your wings contribute to your strength, speed, and equilibrium." He dropped her hand and turned to her desk to pick up her clipboard, "The fact that you've adapted while strapping them to your body as if you have regular human anatomy is impressive."

Clenching his jaw until his teeth hurt and a vague throbbing sensation stared in his temple, he relented after that. Stepping back and sitting on the examination bed kept in her office, he began unleashing and unbuckling the harness until he could slip it off and set it next to him. With a shudder and the feeling of pins and needles, of a twinge from muscles long kept locked in place— Neil unfolded the silver-feathered appendages and stretched them out inch by inch for her to see. 

There was no judgement in Abby's expression. Nor was there any fascination or awe or wonder that is prevalent in people who meet those with wings for the first time. 

(He remembers England, where those with wings are descended from the dying nobility. He remembers his mother and her brother, sitting in an atrium and his mother wearing an open-back dress that allowed her wings freedom. It was the one of the last times he had seen her wings, beautiful and pure white, shimmering in the sunlight filtering in through the glass ceiling. 

They were long and slender, the longest of their feathers often trailing along the ground when his mother relaxed some of her iron-clad control. His uncle's wings were a shade darker, a pale dove gray, larger than his sister's and meant for strength and power, whereas Mary's were agile, dexterous, and meant for speed. 

His own took after his mother's and he was thankful for that. It was bad enough his looks were a mirror image of his father's. He didn't want to carry the burden of having their wings match as well.)

Watching Abby work in silence—checking over his joints and reflexes, measuring his wing span and checking to make sure none of the musculature in his wings had atrophied from disuse, murmuring obligatory questions for her notes—something pulled at his subconscious about her actions and demeanor.

"This isn't the first time you've dealt with—these, is it." Neil swallowed, gripping the harness beside him in one hand and his t-shirt in the other, gauging her reactions as she stepped away from him to jot a few things down in his charts.

A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, "No, it isn't." Abby met his gaze evenly, and gestured towards the harness, "I'm finished. You're free to go, Neil."

Blinking, both annoyed and curious about her answer, he quickly folded his wings against his back and refit the harness, strapping it down and adjusting it minutely after. After dragging his shirt back on and then tugging a hoodie from his duffel to put on at well, Neil spared Abby one last look before leaving her office.

He never wanted to do that again, but he knew it was unavoidable. If he wanted to play exy with the Foxes, if he wanted to indulge himself just a little longer, he would have to play along. For now.

_"You are an impossibility."_

_"Maybe I am."_

_"A fucking pipe dream."_

_"Do I have to repeat myself?"  
_

_"Shut up, Josten."_  
  
-

There are nights when exhaustion isn't enough to put Neil to sleep. 

He'll be restless and squirm about, kicking off his bedding in the process, until eventually he'll give up, pull on clothing again, and sneak out of the dorm as best he can without waking Matt. He'll take his coat, because it's cold on the rooftop, but he doesn't quiet pull it on once he's up there. Instead, he sits far from the edge, removes the suppressing harness and stretches out his wings for a while. 

He sits cross-legged and slips his arms in the sleeves of his coat, wearing it backwards while he lets his wings have some space. He'll fix his scruffy feathers, combing through them carefully and sometimes reminiscing about the rare times his mother would do this for him with a gentleness he hardly ever associated with her. She was a hard woman, often cold and distant with him at the best of times; but she was dedicated to keeping them safe, devoted to protecting him until the bitter end. He loves her for it, even if he hated her in equal measures for the same reasons. It was a double-edge sword, but it was in the past now, and there was no point to him always drowning in his memories.

He just couldn't stop it some nights. When his anxiety, panic, and fear got the best of him, when his nightmares were near-endless terrors that woke him trembling and sweating. 

Behind him, the access door opened and the near silent steps on the concrete gave him a hint as to who it was. The footsteps stopped behind him, then he heard the rustle of fabric as the other sat behind him and careful, hot hands touched his bare back. He shuddered at the touch but he could recognize those calloused hands anywhere. 

Sure fingertips poke and prod the flesh from whence his wings protrude, massaging and caressing the muscle there, helping Neil relax further under the unexpected touch. It helps that those hands venture into the plumage at the base of his wings, carefully combing and righting messy feathers, easing out the broken ones and working through the muscle and exploring the bones structure further.

Movement behind him makes him turn his head just a little when he feels warm breath on his left shoulder, hears the whisper of "yes or no?", giving his consent before soft lips press to his shoulder. From there, it's a warm trail of kisses from shoulder to shoulder, then back to his nape and down his spine. He can't help the pleasant tremors, the tiniest of wanting sounds escaping his throat as he is pushed forward to rest his head on his folded legs. 

His wings flutter and spread out, relaxed against the ground as hands as careful with his whole being are just as careful when they work through both appendages. He can't help the private smile spreading on his lips, can't help it when he sits up and lifts a wing in silent invitation for the other man to sit beside him. 

When Andrew finally comes forward, sitting cross-legged and letting their knees touch, Neil lowers his wing until it rests around Andrew's broad shoulders; he smiles and lets that happy warmth spread through him when Andrew absent starts toying with his feathers again.

"Thank you." He whispers it, not wanting to break the fragile quiet that had settled between them. He doesn't miss the faint twitch of Andrew's mouth, nor the way one hand tugs threateningly at one of his long feathers.

"Shut up." 

It becomes a habit after that.

When neither can sleep, or want to sleep, another ritual to add to their rooftop escapes. It's a slow build on the path to trust for them, but Neil takes what he can when he's given it, feeling no rush nor hesitance.  
  
-

Common knowledge is that those born with wings aren't common in the United States. 

Wings come with from strong lineages, wings come from ancient bloodlines; Mary Hatford had come from a potent combination of the two, which had led to her marriage with Nathan, whose lineage wasn't as strong as hers, but enough to count. It forged an alliance between two winged families, and brought two crime syndicates together as one. 

These were truths Nathaniel wasn't privy to as a child, but had somehow pried stories of her family from his mother over the years during their time on the run. But that was it. He knew the Hatfords had power of another kind, power far more respected than what a mere crime syndicate could hope to garner. His mother came from a world where _blood_ was valued above all else.

The banquet was an eye-opener, to say the least. 

For Neil to learn of his father's ties to the Moriyamas, of his mother's true reasons for spiriting him away in the night and spending the next eight years on the run, for beating curiosity and love and affection and attachment out of him the moment it was obvious. He knew she loved him and she had her reasons, but he'll be the first to admit that some large part of him hated her by the end of it. 

To learn _Nathaniel Wesninski_ was supposed to have been another piece to Tetsuji Moriyama's glorified collection of _angels_ , all because of his father's position as Kengo Moriyama's killer on a leash, it only served to make him a virulent combination of angry and desperate. 

_Abram_ was the only truth he had left, it was the only thing to anchor him. If it meant giving himself up to Riko and his insanity for two weeks to protect the family he'd earned through the Foxes, he'd do anything to keep it that way.

_Abram_ would give up his wings if that's what it took.

-

Neil sat curled up in a corner at the airport. He didn't remember getting there, he didn't remember sitting down, and he kept fading in and out of consciousness because he was just so tired and everything inch of him felt heavy with pain; the worst of it being his back, where his wings were strapped painfully tight to his torso. An announcement overhead called for arrivals to South Carolina and he squeezed his eyes shut against the burn of his eyes. He was home, and the relief that flooded through him was overwhelming, and he had to work to keep himself from being noticed or approached.

With difficulty, he pulled his cellphone from his pocket and turned it on. He waited a bit and the flood of texts didn't take very long to overwhelm the device. Ignoring them for now, he pressed the speed dial for Wymack and tried to keep his breathing even until the coach answered.

"Better have a damn good reason for bugging me on a holiday." Coach's voice filtering through the static was like a balm and Neil sighed in shaky relief.

"I didn't know who else to call." Neil swallowed to try and get the weakness to fade, but he knew it was useless, his throat was sore and wrecked and would be for a while (all he knew was screaming, so his voice was broken and scratchy), "Can you—" Speaking hurt, breathing hurt, he had to take a breath again, "Can you come get me? I'm—airport. I'm at the airport."

Wymack was silent at the other end, until Neil heard that tired sigh through the speaker, "Yeah, yeah, I'll be there soon, kid. Stay put."

They hung up and he tucked his phone away in his hoodie, carefully drawing his knees up and resting his forehead on them. The vibrating alert somewhere in his pocket startled him awake again and he hadn't even realized he'd dozed off. He read the text from Wymack saying he'd arrived and slowly, slowly he unfolded himself and used the wall behind him as a steadying force to keep standing while he grabbed his bag and headed for the exit. He found Wymack leaning against his car with a cigarette between his lips and a look of consternation claiming his features.

"What the hell, Neil." Wymack frowned even harder, if it was possible.

Neil gave a weak little half-smile, nearly collapsing right then and there in relief at seeing a familiar face. He must have done just that, because Wymack lunged for him and caught him by the arms before he could hit the ground and hauled him towards the car where he opened the passenger door and held onto Neil as he slid into the seat while trying to ignore the pain screaming in his limbs and back, and tucked his bag at his feet and closed his eyes as the man pulled off and out of the airport pick-up lane.

"You know we're going to have to talk about this eventually." 

The carefully controlled tone was not lost on Neil and he nodded before curling up more in his seat. He let his head loll onto the seatbelt and he stared out the window until he started feeling drowsy again.

"I know."

He doesn't remember the ride back to Palmetto and when he wakes, he wakes to the uncomfortable weight of his own body on his back. Biting back any noise of pain threatening to escape his mouth, he rolls onto his side and stares blearily at a half-empty bottle of scotch on the coffee table, and sees Wymack sitting in his office chair beyond that. Wymack's expression is carefully blank and guarded, but he knows there's curiosity deeper than that, knows he can't lie his way out of explaining any of this.

Neil got to work peeling off his hoodie and his t-shirt, then the straps of the unkind harness Riko had forced him into, and it was a painstaking process because not only did his hands and arms hurt, but his back was killing him with the strain on his wings. They felt unnaturally bruised and strained from the hell Riko and his Ravens had put him through. He pulled one over his shoulder to start fixing his feathers, the small twinges of pain unavoidable while tried as gently as he could to pluck out the worst of the broken feathers and let them fall to the floor as he worked. It stung like needles, like accidental pinpricks or when your limbs go numb from sitting on them awkwardly. 

During the whole process, his mind kept sinking back into the memories of Andrew doing the same thing. Whether it was after games, practice, while they were alone on the roof, or hiding away in Andrew's room. Only it was done with less malicious intent and more fascination when Andrew did it. Andrew was cruel and unyielding while on his medication, a living suit of armor for Kevin, and teetering on the edge of civil with Neil. But there was something different to his apathy where Neil was concerned, as if getting to touch his oft hidden wings made Neil more _real_ , more _alive_ , and less of a _lie_. 

That was the point, though. Andrew wanted nothing but honesty from Neil and the existence of his wings was one of his most absolute truths.

When he finally started pushing himself up to get in the shower, he made the accidental mistake of catching his reflection in the mirror. The face that stared back at him made his stomach drop, his heart ache, and the bile rise in his throat. He felt nausea like an old friend when he saw his natural icy-blues and auburn hair, the reds catching in the bathroom light reminding him too much of blood. 

The panic and fear was instant, and then he saw the number 4 tattooed into his cheekbone. He needed to _cut it off_. He needed to _carve it out_. Making a noise in his throat that sounded inhuman in its pain, Neil tore out of the bathroom like a madman and headed straight for the kitchen, where he shoved Wymack out of the way and went straight for the knife block full of kitchen knives. 

Wymack yelled in surprise and grabbed for him, wrenching the knife from his hands and dragging him to the other end of the kitchen, all the while Neil was sobbing uncontrollably, scrabbling to get away from the strong arms dragging him into a solid chest. Neil's wings fluttered weakly and shot out in his panic, another thing that stunned Wymack in the silence that followed. 

He doesn't know how long they say there huddled on the kitchen floor, but Abby had shown up at some point and her quiet presence hovering in the doorway had only served to remind Neil that he wasn't alone, and that some of his secrets were open for both adults to see. After a while, coach carefully helped Neil to his feet and held onto him as they walked into the living room for Wymack to sit Neil on his couch and step away in order for Abby to approach.

Abby was careful and considerate, unwrapping the old bandages and checking him over thoroughly, before asking Wymack for hot towels for Neil to clean himself up a little. She waited until he was done and got to work wrapping him up again, giving him fresh gauze and patches, new bandages that would have to be changed again in a few hours. 

But on doctor's orders, Neil was given a pillow and blankets and Abby helped him turn the couch into a makeshift bed once again; under her watchful eye, he drank two glasses of water with some pain relievers and was promptly bullied into bed, where his weakened wings hung limply over the edge of the couch and trailed broken feathers on the carpet.

He knew upon waking, there'd be questions to answer, perhaps some more difficult than others. But for now, he needed to sleep and time to let his mind be _empty_. 

-

His time at the Nest is tinted red and black, but colored thoroughly in pain. The black painted walls are a darkness that is always cloying and he thinks he sees the shadows move and shift in his peripherals, it makes him skittish and earns him plenty of quelling looks from Jean whenever the other man sees it.

He remembers the metal pins Riko hammered into his wings, wanting to _"pin himself an angel"_.

He remembers the tear of feathers from the tender flesh beneath, trying to bite back his screams between the prickling needle feeling and the ache left behind.

He remembers the loud, unnatural crack of cartilage and bone when Riko stepped on and pressed into the joints of one of his wings. He had felt the pain like an electric shock and he nearly bit through his cheek trying to hold back his cries.

He would not give in, he would not bend, he would not bow, and he would not _break_. 

-


	10. serenity / through the valley of death

andrew isn't particular about the details, but somewhere over the years, he had learned to _trust_ this fucking idiot. time had given them what they needed, a steady pace to learn and explore, grow and release. at some point (he doesn't want to waste the energy thinking of _when_ ), he realized _this is it_. it was a dangerous feeling, because when he allowed himself a moment to think about it, to dissect it and tear it apart (like neil beneath his mouth, nothing but soft gasps, shuddering breaths, and trembling flesh and bones with every kiss andrew burns into his skin); he felt like _falling_ all over again.

 _this is it_ , he thinks, as he trails kisses bordering on _hunger_ down the valley of neil's scarred chest. _this is it,_ he thinks, as he traces every muscle defined by his junkie's stupid obsession, every white knitted slash of scar tissue with his tongue. _this is it_ , he thinks, as he bites and licks at the tender skin between sharp hip bones, marking what is his and dragging his nails down toned thighs to push them further apart.

 _falling_ is what he's doing when he looks up through his own blonde lashes to see neil panting above him, luminous blue eyes blown wide with the love that threatens to drown andrew some days, cheeks and torso flushed pink, chest littered with andrew's own sort of adoration. _falling_ is the feeling in his stomach when neil bites his lower lip and keens softly with a full body shiver at the way andrew's tongue tastes his scars and devours every bloody memory behind them.

 _hunger_ is the way his lips traverse the skin of neil's wrists, alternating between quick nips and open-mouthed kisses. _hunger_ is the way his tongue laves across dusty pink nipples, circling and taunting, while he rakes his nails down neil's side. _hunger_ is the fuel behind the explosion, when andrew sheds another layer of indifference for the beautiful, wild, unhindered thing in his hands; when neil finally shatters and breathes _andrew_ like a benediction, like _andrew_ is something so holy, that he can do nothing more than whisper his reverence.

 _this is it_ , he realizes. he has _fallen_ , and he is _hungry_ for every broken piece this stupid man could give him. he craves the way all their jagged and sharpest edges fall together. he wants the flare of heat in his own body, the sudden rush in his veins when he thinks of unraveling this idiot every day and night for the rest of their ridiculous lives.

 _this is it_ , he thinks, and suddenly _falling_ isn't as terrifying as it used to be.

 


	11. on fire / andrea johanna minyard did not know how to be looked at.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (aftg genderbend au)

every line of muscle is toned and sharp as she traces them with curious fingertips. her touch is reverent, as if the gods had given her a sacred gift and she is determined to cherish it. her lips are parted in wonder, breathing so softly the blonde beside her notes the minute rise and fall of her chest, the tip of her tongue darting across soft and plush lips as if she was imagining the taste of something sweet in the air. in the morning light filtering through the window, hazel eyes turn a startling gold as the older woman watches not her traveling fingertips, but the expressions flitting across her face– from curiosity to wonder to something bordering on pure _need_. she's never seen anyone look at her with something so innocent. she is used to the fear, the caution and the suspicion, she was used to the animalistic _lust_ in her foster brother's eyes. but this? this was new. 

 _andrea johanna minyard_ did not know how to be looked at with what could only be described as adoration. she was momentarily stunned by it earlier, only to boil it away to remain utterly unconcerned by it. because she knew it was stupid. she had feigned disinterest in the beginning, but with every question for consent and tentative touch in places she would never allow otherwise, she began to realize this was _different_. for all the hardness, for all the iron and fire beneath the surface, _neela josten_ still had a layer of silk to hide it all with ease. she was full of jagged little pieces, and somehow they fit will all of andrea's. 

andrea minyard, kendra day's dark shadow, her guardian, her watch dog. andrea minyard, the vicious goalkeeper of the palmetto state foxes. (nicki sometimes compared her cousin to _the wall_ in game of thrones; neela snickered, andrea was _not_ amused.)

neela josten was small, wiry and lithe from running every day, from playing exy every day, from _years_ on the road. in certain outfits, she could pass off as a really pretty boy and the foxes and vixens alike often cooed and gushed about it in the most irritating fashion, it takes a long, cold stare from andrea and the appearance of her knives to get everyone to back off. 

andrea's protective streak always shows itself in unconventional ways. she may be short for her age, but she was menacing in a way very few men could pull off. people knew she was dangerous, people knew she was fucked up, but what people didn't know is _just how far_ she was willing to go to keep her promises above all things. she was a _survivor_ , and survivors were always more than just _dangerous_.

her promise to neela. her promise to her sister. her promise to kendra. her promise to never let anyone close again. 

but right here, with neela's calloused hands marked with bruises and bandaids from practice tracing her collarbones and the corded muscle of her neck, with quiet murmurs of _"is this okay?"_ and _"can i...?"_ and those brilliant, bright blue eyes, almost silver in the sun and dark as arctic waters in the night–

she felt the first cracks in her impenetrable armor and she absolutely _hated_ the striker for it. _this was nothing_ , she reminded herself. _this will continue to be nothing_.

andrea didn't like the unbidden thought that she might be lying to herself.

even as neela pulled her hand away, propped herself on her elbow and gave that signature smile that wasn't quite a smile, even as she asked _"yes or no?"_ and andrea narrowed her eyes before saying _"yes"_ ; even as neela slowly closed the distance and gave her a feather-light kiss–

 _this is nothing_ was starting to sound like a lie as it echoed in her own head. 

but somewhere along the way, something _changed_. when neela disappeared, taken by her father's people, when andrea gave kendra bruises the woman would never forget, when their deal had ended but still she felt this _thing_ , this unapologetic and overwhelming _need_ to find neela and bring her back, bring her home and put her right here where she belonged (she was a _fox_ , there was no other place meant for her).

andrea felt like a lightbulb had burst in her chest, and all the pieces had coated her insides, carving neela's name, her face, her stupid fucking _smile_ into her bones. she felt like her blood was _screaming_ for neela in those hours she was missing. _fucking junkie idiot_. 

 _fuck you,_ andrea thinks as the fbi interrogates them and locks them in a room together, _fuck you_ , she thinks when she tackles an agent and breaks the man's nose and wymack has to drag her off. _fuck you_ , she thinks when she sits, glaring at everyone in the room, seething because neela _is not here_ where she can see her, touch her, make sure she's alive and _real_.

 _i'm not a hallucination_ –

 _you're a pipe dream_ –

when neela walks in the room covered in bandages and burns, andrea is thinking somewhere in the back of her mind that she has never understood _relief_ before, that she has never understood _fury_ like this before; because beneath her hands, neela is still _iron_ , is still so much steel and silk, with monsters in the attic just like andrea.

so here they are, between feral grins at the press and the knowing smirks of their teammates, between practices, classes, and weekends in columbia. here, where neela is safe, where she is _real_ and she is the name buried in andrea's bones. here, where yes is always yes, except when it's no. 

where the dream became reality and _nothing_ has become _something._

-


	12. violence / like violence, you have me.

it’s not burning if he likes it. it's more lightning, sharp and quick, bright and  _searing_  through his veins. this is what violence feels like, he thinks. it’s too quick for fire, though he feels that too. he wasn’t born to this, not like neil was, he grew into it. he didn’t need second skins, or third, or fourth. he didn’t need a mask.

he wore violence on his sleeve, carved into his flesh, soaked into every muscle. maybe his moral compass was broken to others, but _his_ violence, it wasn’t righteous like kevin or cruel like neil, it was  _cold_.

his violence was like ice and lightning, blood like ozone filling his senses and the whiplike reflex to  _break._  everything, he could destroy it all in a blink.

fury & fear, the culmination of  _years_ of forced emptiness. an abyss created out of necessity. no one could fathom just how deep it went.

except.

 _him_.

-

_"andrew."_

he breaks the surface and he's whole again. a voice he hears above the thunder in his veins.

he stares. wills _him_ to look away first.

he never does.

_"yes or no?"_

_"yes."_

-


	13. bloodsport / andrew is the latest incarnation of death and neil is the most annoying human alive.

"You're a fucking dumbass."  
  
Neil blinked awake below him, eyes drowsy and unfocused, skittering in panic before settling on him. He had arms folded across his chest while he waited for the bloodied-up fool to wake up, cigarette smoking between his lips, and a thoroughly blank expression on his face. It takes him a few moments, but Neil slowly sits up and starts checking himself over in confusion, then he stops, lifting his shirt to see the scars on his belly and frowning. Andrew is gazing at him like the whole process was tedious and to him, yes, it was.  
  
"I was ready to die." Neil stated, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. "Why did you do it?"  
  
"I don't appreciate people touching my things."  
  
Andrew flicked ash from his cigarette before taking another drag from it, studiously ignoring the expression on Neil's face— a odd mix between amusement and incredulity. _Idiot_. He turned away as Neil hauled himself off the bloody concrete, surveying the mess of bodies in the basement. The quiet chuckle from behind him made him cast a look over his shoulder, catching the cheeky smirk Neil gave him.  
  
"I always knew you cared."  
  
The blonde just barely resisted rolling his eyes as he looked away. His attention returned to the cooling corpse of Nathan Wesninski, Neil's own father, the way blood seeped from his body to the floor. The smell would always make his nose twitch, even if he was used to the stench of rot and decay; it's why he liked sweet things so much. There would be quite a bit of ice cream in their immediate future after they were done here.  
  
"Andrew." Neil stepped up beside him, also staring down at his father's body with a far away gaze. "Show me."  
  
Andrew stared at Neil for another moment, deciding to file away that expression for another day to contemplate and kneeling down before the corpse. He tugged Neil down with him, unwittingly forcing the blue-eyed human to face his father's death-frozen face as he tapped on the man's throat and, absently noting the way Neil shifted beside him, waited as a soft, glowing orb of black light floated out of the open mouth. Neil seemed to lean away from it a fraction, perhaps understanding already what that little black light was, but Andrew reached up and gripped the back of his neck to ground him and make him watch as he reached for it.  
  
Neil stared with open curiosity as Andrew brought it to his mouth and ate it, swallowing that little bit of darkness in one smooth motion. Something like _want_ flitted across Neil's expression, the way his eyes watched the way Andrew's throat worked unmistakable.  
  
"Staring." Andrew muttered, tongue darting out the lick the taste of it from his lips. The blackest of souls always had a thick and bitter taste to them, like a syrup without the sweetness.  
  
Neil smiled, small and just for him, "Stop me."  
  
There was a flare of gold in Andrew's eyes at that, the hazel melting away in an abyss of black, the pupils spread until his eyes are nothing but black pits; until pinpricks of gold appear, until his irises were galaxies floating in the depths of space. Neil's breath caught at the sight, his own ice-blue eyes locking with Andrew's and it wasn't lost on him that he was staring _Death_ in the face and smiling like a damned fool.  
  
"Andrew…" Neil leaned forward into his space, those brilliant eyes of his focused on Andrew's lips with intent until he was stopped.  
  
Andrew pressed two fingers to Neil's mouth to prevent their lips touching, forcing Neil's gaze back to his and holding it, the intensity in which Andrew watched him, the way he seemed to be taking Neil apart with that _look_ —  
  
"Don't." He whispered, not missing the minute disappointment in those eyes, "Not like that."  
  
Neil blinked, eyes dropping to Andrew's mouth again thoughtfully. Instead, Neil smiled against his fingertips, and brought his hand up to gently grasped Andrew's and proceeded to kiss his fingertips. Andrew stared at him with a heated gazed, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of Neil pressing careful kisses to each digit and at last his palm.  
  
"Cheeky fucker." Andrew growled out, his other hand on Neil's neck tightening with just a hint of threat.  
  
"But I'm your _cheeky_ fucker."  
  
-  
  
_"Your father is dead. Nathaniel is dead. You are Neil Josten, the right hand of Death."_

  
-

_"Lie to me,"_ he whispers in the dark, between the teeth and the bruises, and the sheets soaked with sweat in the summer heat.  
  
_"Lie to me"_ he gasps, _"Just this once,"_   asks. It's not begging. He's only begged once in his life. But this, this is nothing.  
  
He earned a kiss that makes his lip bleed, teeth worrying the flesh, and he tastes iron on his tongue (he thinks of _stars_ and how they _died_ to bring him to this moment).  
  
_"I hate you."_  
  
And the way it's spoken into his skin, against his pulse where his heart is screaming and his blood is burning in his veins. The elation he feels is probably misplaced, it's almost _wrong_ to feel this good about words that sing true every time he hears them.  
  
But this, oh _this_. He feels the heat like a supernova, the explosion and the black hole. Everything he is swallows up the world around him and the lies he tells are nothing but the waves taking light years to sink in to whomever he tells.  
  
He thinks of the their scars like constellations, mapping out the history of their two universes, and here they are, two forces colliding, two suns bursting.  
  
He thinks of the galaxies he sees in Andrew's eyes and he knows he falls faster each time. He thinks of the abyss within, the sea full of cruelty and malice that is turbulent and wild inside of Andrew—  
  
( because he is _Death_ , and death is a finality, for human, for matter; an absence in the fabric of the universe. )  
  
—Neil accepts cold kisses and cool hands on his skin. He smiles at the hard eyes and even harsher words, because he knows there is more to it. There is always more to it.  
  
"Neil."  
  
He blinks and their lips are inches apart, he blinks and there's a hand on his neck, he blinks and the hard lines of Andrew's face are smoothed away like carved marble. He blinks and he's _falling_.

-

Neil jerks awake to find he's alone in the bed. His heart is rabid in his chest and his lungs burn just a little from the dream setting his instincts aflame. He smells cigarette smoke and looks over to the windows to see Andrew perched on the dresser, and Neil can tell his human mask is back in place. 

"Bad dream, junkie?" His tone is nearly mocking, but still so utterly bland, Neil thinks he's trying to hide his curiosity; because he's looking at Neil now with the same intensity he always looks at Neil when he's trying to puzzle him out.

"No, not really." Neil sits up, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, "I dreamt of you kissing me."

Andrew glared at him, insomuch as Andrew can glare. His eyes narrowed a fraction and his whole expression tightened, lips pressing together in a thin line.

"Don't think about foolish things like that." He looked away and Neil chuckled.

"I suppose I'll try not to."

Andrew glared at him again and Neil could only smile back in return.  
  
\- 

_"What is Aaron?"_  
  
It's been a few months since they started this game of theirs. It's been almost as long since Andrew showed Neil ( _Nathaniel_ ) a piece of his own truth, gave him a taste of who he is beneath this silly and uncomfortable human suit. Neil had looked at his darkness straight on, called the shimmering abyss of his eyes _galaxies_ made of gold, asked _yes or no_ , and kissed his fingertips (because now matter how much Andrew _wanted_ , he couldn't _have_ him, he couldn't _kiss_ him; to kiss Neil would be the death of him, and Andrew wasn't done bending the laws of the universe just yet). Neil wasn't particularly stupid, more a damned fool than anything else; it only worsened when his self-preservation instincts seemed to fly out the window when he came to Palmetto and joined the Foxes, and when he told little bastard Riko Moriyama to _fuck off_ in so many words.  
  
Andrew slanted hooded eyes and an arched brow at him, "Does it matter?"  
  
Neil was quiet beside him, brows knit together in thought for a few moments longer before he spoke up again, "I want another round. What is Aaron?"  
  
He blinked, eyes narrowing a fraction before sliding away from the boy beside him. He stared out towards the horizon, overlooking the city surrounding the campus and beyond. He could feel it, somewhere nearby someone was closer and closer to the end of their line and he would have to leave soon to collect them. He took another drag and held the cigarette out to Neil, feeling those eyes on him as the other took it from his fingertips without touching him. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, a brief flash of amusement before it burned away beneath the heady tug of another dying soul in the distance.  
  
"He's my twin. What else would he be?" He mused quietly, leaning back on his hands and looking at Neil again.  
  
Blue eyes darkened by the fall of night stared back at him. For how ridiculous and idiotic Neil could be, for how oblivious he could be to most things; here was a well-masked perception straining at the seams. Neil could somehow see right through him, read him better than any one or any entity in existence. To him, it was a strange mix of relief and anguish that filled him when he saw these instances. He hated Neil for how _human_ he was, and he hated him more for how much _potential_ he had beyond mortality.  
  
"He's your mirror and your opposite. He's your twin, and yet, you hate him. You barely tolerate him." Neil watched him as he spoke, like he would find the answers the longer he held Andrew's gaze.  
  
(Except, he could. Andrew had mastered this human visage, could keep his essence from seeping through the cracks, and the few times he had lost control, well, none were left alive to tell the tale. Neil was different. He wasn't afraid of Andrew. He wasn't afraid of Death. He wasn't afraid to look for the loopholes in Andrew's existence and work with them.  
  
Neil Josten had learned to see through the mask he wore and had _smiled_ just for him.  
  
He fucking _hated_ him for it.)  
  
Andrew huffed, the closest to a laugh he'd ever get, "Well, well, junkie's got a brain behind the obsession after all." He reached between them and swiped the bottle of whiskey for a heavy swig, closing his eyes at the burn down his throat. "Too smart, some days."  
  
Neil stole the bottle but traded him the cigarette, "There's no death without life and vice-versa." He couldn't help the way his eyes snapped to Neil's neck, watching the muscles work as he swallowed and breathed after. "You hate Aaron because he's the entity that balances you, isn't he?"  
  
Andrew lifted his gaze to Neil's face, taking in the knowing smile tugging at his lips and his piercing blue eyes, and again, he _wants_ what he cannot have. It was another dream, to think he could taste something as simple as _humanity_. Neil Josten was a _pipe dream_ , nearly tangible, easily turned to dust in his hands if he wasn't careful; he was terrifying in how complex and simple he was.  
  
Neil continued to defy all logic and it earned nothing but Andrew's ire that a human with a death wish could get under his skin so easily.  
  
"Andrew. Yes or no?"  
  
He didn't notice they had gotten closer, the scant space between them near gone, their hands on the concrete close and fingertips mere centimeters apart. He doesn't answer immediately, instead taking in the way Neil's body seems frozen, no expectation nor anticipation in the still lines of his body, his lips parted as he breathes in soft, easy breaths, the smell of whiskey on their tongues and cigarettes in the air. Neil is an entity himself, something improbable and ever-changing. Something _real_.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Andrew holds his other hand out to Neil and the other man takes it carefully, cradling it with his own. The feather-light kisses he litters across his palm cause something inside him to fracture, a new hairline crack with every gentle press of lips down the length of each one of his fingers. He felt his world tilt a little more when Neil flipped his hand palm-down and kissed his knuckles, arctic blues taking in every bit of his reactions as muted as they were; brows furrowing, lips pressed thinly as he buried all his thoughts and all his fury and all his hatred. But Neil wasn't watching his face, Neil was watching his eyes.  
  
He had dropped his mask just enough for his true eyes to show. For the sclera to turn the pitch black of space and the iris to shimmer into the golden whorl of a galaxy. Neil didn't bother hiding a smile then, he could feel it against the back of his hand before he tugged it out and away from Neil's loose grip.  
  
"Maybe one day, I'll get to kiss you." Neil murmured, purposefully keeping his voice soft.  
  
"I'd kill you." Andrew hummed, grabbing his carton of cigarettes and tapping one out, wanting to keep his hands occupied, conflicted with his need to reach out and _touch_. "At least if you kiss a viper, you might stand a chance of surviving."  
  
A sudden, unhindered, amused laugh burst from Neil. Andrew stared him down until he calmed down, but once again, he felt a _shift_ and something else fragmented inside himself. He was _Death_ , he wasn't supposed to get attached, it was an unrealistic and dangerous thing for him to _hope_.  
  
Neil truly did a wonderful job of defying all logic in the universe.  
  
Andrew waited with begrudging patience for Neil to reduce his stupid laughter to breathless chuckles, the ice of his eyes softening when he met Andrew's unwavering gaze.  
  
"Yeah, but I'd die happier with a kiss from you." Neil wouldn't stop smiling, grinning almost, and Andrew had the sudden urge to throw him off the roof. It wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last, he figured.  
  
Andrew rolled his eyes and shoved his face away, "Shut the fuck up, idiot."  
  
In the next moment, he brought his cigarettes to his lips and lit up, pointedly ignoring the way Neil was watching him. He didn't bother hiding his natural eyes, instead he let the human facade drop a little more and held himself like a statue as he waited for Neil's reaction. He let show his graying, near translucent skin, his silver hair, and the cracks in his preternatural flesh around his eyes. If one dared to look closely at these cracks, they would see wisps of darkness escape, and when he was angry, if his fury and hatred flared, the cracks would become fissures, revealing the inviting abyss that was his true form. This body was nothing more than a vessel, a container, a means to which he could walk among humans.  
  
"You're amazing…" Neil breathed, his eyes wide not in disgust or fear, but awe and something else that Andrew didn't want to label.  
  
Slowly, Andrew pulled the human mask back in place, pulled his darkness back into the depths of himself and buried it deep beneath his apathy.  
  
"There's your truth for the night." Andrew muttered around the smoke escaping his lips. "Aaron is my opposite in every way." Another huff of disdain, "Where I am the end, he is the beginning." He knew there was a bitter sneer threatening to steal onto his mouth, but he bit the inside of his cheek, facing away from Neil with the effort.  
  
"Andrew." There was something unfamiliar in Neil's tone that made him look back, "Thank you."  
  
Instead of answering, Andrew took another drag from his cigarette and passed it over to Neil, looking back across the cityscape below them. For now, it was enough. He was annoyed with Neil's undemanding nature, for taking _no_ for an answer, for looking at him like he was some kind of _salvation_. It was frustrating, the way his inner world tilted every time Neil smiled at him, how everything came into the sharpest focus every time Neil was so very _alive_ in the face of Death.

-


	14. problem / its name is neil abram josten

there was a moment a while back where neil crossed the line from _warning_ to _problem_ and he remembers it exactly, but he's choosing not to think about it. thinking about it means acknowledging the simple fact of _neil josten_.

there was also a moment when he realized he was fucking _gone_ on this stupid, smart, lying little asshole. he knew there were masks in place. he knew there were lies laced with lies, stitched with half-truths and a _game_ of give and take. 

( _you're 105% on my shitlist_ , he thinks )

there was a moment when he made a promise and followed through until he was told to break it. 

( he remembers that moment when he told himself about _problems_ )

there was a moment when he nearly choked the life out of kevin fucking day for a truth and it is this point that he knows he's over the edge. he knew he was falling and had no way to stop it. 

( _yes or no?_

 _yes_ )

there was a moment when he realized _there was no turning back from this_.

 _i hate you_.

-

 


	15. find god / dirty church things hc

  * neither of them are religious. andrew ignored it thanks to luther and neil’s mother never mentioned or seemed to care for religion.
  * they only reason either of them end up in a church is for fox weddings.
  * the first time it happens, it’s at matt and dan’s wedding.
  * neil looks too damned good in a tailored suit 
  * andrew picked the cut of it, but allison had a  _lot_  to say about the colors
  * (anyone ever see [michael b. jordan in the dolce&gabbana alta sartoria flower print suit](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.vogue.com%2Fslideshow%2Fromantic-fall-fashion-michael-b-jordan-liya-kebede%233&t=YmY2ODFlNjA2OGY3NWIxNDZlZTY1NDYxZWUxNTdlNTRlZTdmYWQ0NixLM21GakVDWQ%3D%3D&b=t%3AvRg1dmjKDgCXgtXIkVmHzg&p=http%3A%2F%2Fgoddamnminyard.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F156402509307&m=0)?  _yes neil in that suit_ ) 
  * between his stupid face and his wonderful eyes, andrew makes sure his tie matches his damn eyes since the suit nearly matches his hair. 
  * neil smirks about that.
  * andrew ignores him the whole ride to the church. 
  * fuck it, let’s make it a cathedral. 
  * so they’re standing off to the side like a half hour before the wedding starts and the game begins


  * obviously neil is matt’s best man, who the fuck would ever question that
  * (keeping the brosten bromance real)
  * so neil and matt and some of matt’s teammates are chatting it up before the ceremony, and matt’s fucking dying because  _he’s marrying the most amazing woman ever_
  * neil keeps sneaking peeks at andrew the whole time tho because  _hello_
  * this junkie’s gotta drink his fill of his man looking so fucking  _unreal_
  * andrew’s dress to the nines in a black tom ford  ~~he’s looks like a short james bond okay fight me~~
  * neil probably internally screaming  ~~i’m internally screaming~~
  * he’s trying to play it off like he’s not staring or not sneaking looks at andrew and he is fucking failing at it
  * andrew catches him every time. because he too can’t keep his fucking eyes off neil.
  * this leads to Problems.
  * Problem #1: neil is oblivious to the stares he’s getting. he looks Perfect.
  * Problem #2: andrew really fucking hates how badly he wants to wreck this boy, oh lordy, may god have  _mercy_  on their souls
  * Problem #3: andrew is thinking “fuck it, i’mma wreck this boy”
  * without a word, neil is dragged to a far side of the cathedral where the confessionals are lined up, no one is paying the fuck attention, no one  _wants_  to pay attention because it’s  _andrew_ , they might  **die**  okay
  * andrew throws him in, shuts the door, closes the little curtain and just burns neil alive with a  _look_  and neil.
  * oh neil. this idiot. he’s both confused and smiling and just.  _that look_  is often the beginning of the end.
  * it starts with kisses that make him speechless and he’s trying not to trick and trying not to touch until he’s allowed to
  * andrew makes him sit on the bench and is kneeling between his legs and  _christ_  neil might not survive this wedding the way andrew’s marking a constellation on his chest
  * the suit’s a bit wrinkled and rumpled. his shirt’s unbutton and untucked and his tie is gagging his mouth and his hands have a death grip on the bench
  * andrew is  _giving him a blowjob 20 minutes before his best friend’s wedding ceremony._  
  * neil is appalled.
  * neil is also wrecked because it feels amazing and the thrill of getting caught just makes it more intense.
  * and andrew. oh, andrew. he knows what makes neil tick.
  * he knows what it takes to draw it out or make neil come faster than a horny teenager. 
  * today, andrew almighty is merciful.
  * neil is  _shaking_  and his skin is all flushed and pretty, and his eyes are a bit watery and  _wanting_  and it’s gonna be hard to hide the bite marks and wet spots on the pale-blue tie after this.
  * neil looks  _gorgeous_.  ~~andrew secretly fucking loves it.~~  
  * andrew hates him even more because  _fuck you josten_  they’re out of time.
  * “510% junkie”
  * it’s 10 minutes before the ceremony starts and it takes them almost that long to make neil presentable again. 
  * neil stumbles a little walking out and trying to discreetly take his place next to matt 
  * matt boyd, this silly man, is like “what the fuck neil, where did you go– _oh_.”
  * andrew is calm as you fucking please as he steps out and takes a seat.
  * ~~he’s hard af but manages to hide it like a pro~~.
  * he doesn’t take his eyes off neil the rest of the ceremony.
  * if neil is sporting a blush in all the wedding party photos, that’s fine. it’s cute. neil’s always cute. 
  * ~~payback’s a bitch, after all~~.



-


	16. fury road / the aftg-fury road hc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> me: "ohey i'm gonna watch fury road. it's been a couple weeks."  
> me to dark me: "oh look, there's a tfc headcanon in the making."  
> me: " _fuck._ "

  * for thousands of miles, it’s a wasteland around evermore
  * there’s settlements every few hundred miles and there’s a tenuous truce between them: evermore, palmetto, penn state, and more.
  * evermore is a citadel, controlling what remains of the only fresh water on the east coast
  * (there are reserves, in other places, controlled by other citadels and scavengers alike; the world is  _not_  kind. everything  _hurts_  in the wasteland, after all.)
  * not only does aqua cola run fresh at the behest of the moriyamas, so does food and freedoms, and best kept of all are his ravens, and among his ravens, riko’s perfect court (his wives, his lovers, his breeders; all for the purpose of making the perfect human, free of all imperfections that come with the vile world they live in today)
  * they are locked in his vault, well-kept, well-fed, well-watered, because he wants to save them to create more. they are breeders. they are precious to him.


  * riko being the power-mad bastard that he is, he sends his favored imperator minyard to gas town for more  guzzaline. war rigs don’t run themselves, after all.
  * but the most vicious imperator of all has a secret he’s hiding. the war boys accompanying him have no idea that he’s plotting on going off-track, off the beaten path, into hostile territory.
  * they’re going east now. he’s taking a detour.
  * (from the citadel, they see the produce isn’t heading for gas town; the ravens are flustered and afraid, riko bolts for his vault and what does he find? his precious ones, his favored ones, his beautiful things are g o n e – words like “OUR CHILDREN WILL NOT BE WAR LORDS” and “WHO KILLED THE WORLD?” painted like blood all over the walls)
  * now this is where we back a up a bit to the prologue of it all: neil josten is and always has been a runner. he’s been running from the living and the dead. his mother is dead, his father is one of the moriyama’s war lords; all he knows is the wastes, the deserts, the endless emptiness of a dead earth.
  * (let’s say his choice of car is a beast of an old dodge charger, outfitted and equipped for long periods on the go. he can live out of this fucking rig if he has to) he’s been outrunning war boys and ravens for years; only one day he doesn’t drive fast enough, hard enough, to escape a band of war boys who don’t even know who he is.
  * (war boys don’t ask names, don’t care about faces, they just collect for their immortal leader, their savior, their  _redeemer_.)
  * but he’s taken back anyway, set up as a blood bag (high octane crazy blood for the veins)
  * present moment: they’ve taken his jacket, his blood, his goddamned car and strapped him to the front of another rig on the same hunting parting sent by riko. he wants his breeders back, he wants imperator minyard’s head on a spike and his body in pieces, hanging like christmas ornaments from the citadel as a reminder to all: do. not. steal. what is. mine.
  * the war boys of evermore are out in droves, riko and his group of war lords from the citadel, from the bullet farm, from gas town; this is a hunting part of the likes that have never been seen.
  * but minyard, he knows they’re coming. he knows his rig better than anyone. he’s the only one who can drive the beast, only one who knows the sequence to start it and keep it going.
  * he pushes them through the sand storm, destroying the few that have caught up to him, using any means necessary, using the storm to his advantage.
  * (the war boys are screaming for their victory, for valhalla – neil rolls his eyes and does his damnedest to escape, severing the connection between himself the stupid war boy he’s attached to – because this one wants to blow himself up to try and take minyard with him)
  * it’s all a blur in the end because the storm win, between the war rig throwing off the persuers and neil’s dumb attachment is still chained to him when he wakes, dragging himself and the moron he’s chained to from the sands. all he wants is to be free of the chains, be free of the cage around his face (he mouthed of, he couldn’t help himself, he was pissed), get his car back, and fucking leave this shithole and get as far away from the citadel as possible.
  * instead he finds the war rig, he finds the prized breeders (two men, three women, one obviously pregnant and very angry “we’re not going back. we’re not going back.”) and he finds minyard banging the side of the war rig trying to get as much sand and dust out of it as possible.
  * this leads to a knock-down, drag-out fight between neil, minyard, and the idiot war boy that neil was latched onto. it ends in a stalemate. neil manages to get away, sort of, in the war rig only for the kill switch to activate and shut the rig down before he can get too far.
  * the imperator is amused by his attempts, tells him “i set the sequence myself, this rig goes nowhere without me." 
  * and neil’s like "fine. you can get in." 
  * but minyard just stares at him "they come with." 
  * neil is agitated, he’s still trying to get the cage off his face. so he relents. they get in, they leave, he takes every single weapon stashed around the cabin and keeps a gun trained on minyard the whole way. 
  * (somewhere in the back, that stupid mouthy war boy hitches a ride on the pod.)
  * in the backseat, the pregnant one is wounded and their patching her up. a favored limb on the favorite wife. 
  * the war boy is back, trying to get at minyard, but the breeders drag the boy back and wrestling him down
  * neil is multitasking: keeping a hold on hand and gun on jean, eyes on minyard, eyes on the men and remaining women as they try to get the war boy out.
  * there’s kevin trying to quiet jean who is raving about wanting to go back 
  * there’s thea who is wrestling with the war boy and trying to get him out of the cabin
  * there’s allison throwing in just as many punches, there’s a quiet one, also helping to push the war boy out. they succeed and he’s tossed out to sands behind them.
  * _"we are not responsible”_  
  * _“then who killed the world?!”_
  * they reach the canyons, after.
  * minyard teaches neil the sequence (”if something happens to me, get them out, keep going” “…fine.”) and he gets out to negotiate with the canyon dwellers.
  * minyard had made a deal with the two-wheelers of the canyon, a pod of fuel for safe passage.
  * “fuel for you to blow the passage way through behind us.”
  * but it all goes to hell when they see the hunting parties in the distance.
  * _we had a fucking deal_.
  * a firefight, the dwellers chase them down while neil’s driving and the hunting parties catch up. riko is behind them, hellbent and wild, because he wants his breeders, his wives, his boys, and the child, his property, all of it.  _it belongs to him_.
  * soon enough, they escape the canyon after it’s been blown up and filled in. neil drives like mad as minyard and the breeders are fighter off the dwellers trying to rain hellfire on them for supposedly reneging on the deal.
  * this whole time, neil is thinking: i didn’t sign up for this shit, how the fuck did i end up here, i just want to leave but i’m getting shot at by lunatics, kevin is screaming at everyone, jean is wailing in various languages, and the wives idefk what to do with them.
  * but somehow, neil and minyard have come to a fragile truce and work together as much as they’re able to escape and protect the breeders, and get them to the green place, and see the place of many mothers; all they want is to be free
  * but the problem is the pregnant one. she’s wild-eyed, angry, fierce and protective, and the most vocal about getting away. 
  * (there’s a boy she knows, a boy she was taken from; there’s a boy minyard knows, a boy he was separated from) 
  * ( their boy is one and the same, where minyard and the pregnant breeder both come from is in the green place, the safest place)
  * she nearly dies in the canyon, riko screaming that her child is his property, that kevin is his, that jean is his, he wants his boys and his girls back; he screams they aren’t to be harmed, and the bullet farm boys are screaming about protecting their assets
  * she nearly slips to her death from the blood on her leg, but the other wives drag her back in and they manage to outrun them, throwing grenades and bombs that cause riko’s rig to swerve and tip over and they escape further into the desert
  * neil is so beyond pissed at this point. he’s fighting off polecats, flamers, war boys, ravens, the girls keep firing, kevin is fighting as hard as he can as well because he  _can’t go back, he can’t go back_.
  * they throw off the last of them and the deeper they go, the darker it gets.
  * the world is purple and black and blue and wet, muddy and thick.
  * the air tastes bitter and makes their eyes burn.
  * the only reason they stop is to fix a tire, neil setting up traps behind them while the rest try to get the war rig free of the mud
  * neil asks what the hell this “green place” is and minyard tells him.
  * tells him he was taken as a boy but he remembers it so well, that his mother and brother might still be there. tell him that the pregnant one once loved his brother and he promised her, even though he doesn’t like her, that he’d get her back to his brother.
  * minyard tells him, “my name is andrew.”
  * neil stares at him, “i go by neil.”
  * “ _liar”_ minyard laughs at him, but takes it and they don’t say much more because kevin comes up and says they’re ready to get out.
  * then the bullet farm boys show up and shower them in gunfire, one of them laughing and taunting and saying “nathaniel” and the only one who sees the flinch, the jagged edges turn to fine glass points in neil is andrew.
  * they fire back as they flee, their traps blow up those in pursuit and all they hear fading out is the dying scream of a man “ _i will see you in hell, nathaniel”_
  * by daybreak, it’s more endless desert. more mountains of sand, more hills of toxic dirt. they come upon a tower, where a woman stands naked and screaming for help and neil, 
  * neil looks at andrew “that’s a trap”
  * andrew sits quiet for a moment, “stay in the rig.”
  * he walks towards the tower and yells at the woman something the rest of them can’t hear. whatever it was, she makes another wild call, a signal, and she climbs down from the tower, grabbing a robe from the ground and runs for andrew.
  * she’s dark skinned, short-haired, taller than him. she moves like she wants to embrace him, but stops like she knows better.
  * over a hill, motorcycles come roaring from the dunes and he waves the rest of them out of the rig. 
  * “andrew. tilda’s son.” the woman is named dan, danielle, dan, she smiles, and waves over one of the riders.
  * “where’s my brother?” 
  * the rider meets them and removes his mask and goggles and in the background the pregnant one sobs in what sounds like disbelief and hope and shock.
  * “aaron.”/”andrew.” it’s tense, it’s weird, no one knows what to expect.
  * “i have a gift for you. our deal is done.”
  * behind him, the pregnant one runs up to them, stumbling alone the way, crying and chanting aaron’s name over and over.
  * _“katelyn”_  is a prayer and andrew turns away to ignore them, but his eyes land on neil, who’s walking around the rig with the war boy
  * (his name is seth and allison has taken a liking to him. he fights with them, he fights for her now.)
  * andrew learns that his mother is dead. he learns the green place is just as dead. he’s angry. he’s furious. but he doesn’t want to give in just yet. they came too far. they’ve gone through too much. 
  * the bikers, they’re called the foxes. there’s dan and matt, wymack and abby, aaron and nicky. 
  * they take in allison and seth, kevin and jean, thea and renee.
  * neil says he’s going to leave. take the war rig and go another way to lead off the hunting parties. 
  * andrew calls hims  _martyr_  and  _fucking idiot_ , but neil ignores it, smirks, saying “coming from the man playing savior, that’s pretty funny.”
  * andrew hates him and says so. he wants to kill neil with every fiber of his being, but he’s been useful, and he doesn’t throw away useful things that easily.
  * the wives and the lovers, and the foxes are talking about their next step. some vote to continue on, to stay with the foxes and keep going.
  * jean still wants to go back, he still feels a fractured loyalty for riko, but one of the other men amongst the foxes, jeremy, tells him to stay. he’s safer here than he ever will be there.
  * kevin sticks close to andrew, staring at neil, before it hits him.
  * “you were supposed to be a raven. you were supposed to be a guardian.”
  * neil grins, lethal like his father, “i was, but my mother had other ideas. too bad those ideas killed her.”
  * the wives are discussing going back. thea is all for it, so is allison. they both want to fight back, capture the citadel, end the tyranny.
  * jean is afraid, so is kevin but he’s willing, and renee reveals the iron in her bones as well as the knives strapped to her body. her smile reminds them all of a pretty predator.
  * so it soon becomes a unanimous vote. 
  * decide  that they want go back. they want to take the citadel. they want to end riko once and for all.
  * andrew and neil stand facing each other as they other rush for the rig, gathering what weaponry they have left and doing inventory of bullets and grenades.
  * “stay.” andrew says. “i think kevin likes you.”
  * neil has never smiled before this. has never fought this hard for anyone else but himself. but once you share blood with someone, fight with them, kill for them, it’s hard to go back.
  * “i think you like me.”
  * “shut up, idiot.”



-


	17. abram hatford / alternate baltimore hc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What if, across a stadium in London after winning Gold on the International Court, Andrew sees the ghost of one Neil Abram Josten?

  * What if Neil disappeared in Baltimore? 
  * What he was pronounced dead at the scene, his body supposedly too mutilated for recognition after Nathan got his hands on him? 
  * What if, in reality, Stuart had taken him and hidden him away in England after the execution of Nathan? 
  * What if years later, after the Olympics, a man named Hatford catches the eye of one Andrew Minyard? 
  * What if, across a stadium in London after winning Gold on the International Court, Andrew sees the ghost of one Neil Abram Josten?
  * What if that ghost disappears before Andrew can chase it? 
  * What if it leaves a bigger hole in his chest, gauged into him when Neil Josten “died” in Baltimore? 
  * What if Andrew shuts down again, continues to keep Kevin out of Riko’s hands, not knowing of the eyes that watch him from across the pond? 
  * What if Andrew and Kevin don’t realize they’re protected even then? That all the foxes have shadows that protect them quietly from the Moriyamas? 
  * What if, at the next international match (this time in France), a man in black intercepts Andrew Minyard after a match and gives him a small envelope, a date, a time, and a location printed in neat script on thick paper? 
  * What if, with his curiosity and his irritation warring at being summoned by an unknown entity, Andrew Minyard steps out of a black sedan in the driveway of a private manor just outside Calais, to find another man in black? 
  * This man, standing with arms loose at his sides and hands balled into fists and sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and something about his stance, who holds himself like he’s wearing a second skin rather than his own?
  * A man with rust-colored hair and piercing blue eyes and a sharp jawline, handsome and  _impossible_. 
  * ( _“As unpredictable as you are unreal.”_ )
  * What if Andrew  _sees_ —
  * And thinks of a  _pipe dream_  he used to know.
  * “Andrew.”
  * Andrew  _stares_  because he’s trying to see what he saw before.
  * Because he remembers every detail. 
  * Andrew remembers the tentative smiles, shoulders tense with the weight of lies and lives alike, the slow and purposeful change from  _rabbit_  to  _fox_.
  * Andrew remembers sharp blue eyes and bruised cheeks. He remembers bright auburn hair and the tickle of short strands against his skin when he gripped the back of a slender neck. He remembers a careful smile, a hand that  _stopped_  before it touched him, a game of truth for truth.
  * He remembers the way his  _name_  sounded like  _salvation_  on the tip of a liar’s tongue.
  * “Neil.”
  * Andrew always hated the way Neil looked at him like  _that_.
  * “I hate you.”
  * He hated that  _smile_ , too.



-


	18. found: you / neil josten dies in baltimore

Neil Josten dies in Baltimore.

He dies in the basement of his childhood home. He dies a Fox and he dies a lie, because Neil Josten does not exist and the Foxes will never know the full extent of the truth until it's too late.

Nathaniel Wesninski resurfaces and is pronounced dead at the scene, the FBI says his body has been mutilated beyond recognition but DNA testing confirms him to be the son of the Butcher of Baltimore. The media spills his secrets to the world, and the Foxes are caught up in yet another media shit storm.

Andrew Minyard shuts _down_.

The spark of light in Andrew is snuffed the day Neil Josten dies in a bloody mess upon the basement floor of his childhood home, this ( _lie, it's a lie, it was only ever a lie_ ) life taken by the wretched hands of his father.

There is an empty space beside Andrew that should have been filled by _him_ , it is a black hole that Andrew will never let anyone else spill into. He gives no mercy to those who dare tread across his path and offer sympathy or pity; he gives no worth to the fools who try to placate him and give

But he doesn't quit Exy, he continues, if only at a disconnected pace for Kevin's sake. He stands alone between Kevin and Riko, and after the team scrambles for a new player to take Nathaniel's place ( _Neil_ , Andrew hisses, _his name is Neil_ ); after they fight their way to the top for Neil, and after Kevin Day takes the shot that ends the Raven's winning streak and Riko dares to raise his racket against his adopted brother—

Andrew takes the swing that ends Riko's career.

Kevin is the one who witnesses Riko's death at his brother's hand. Andrew is the one who broker's the deal to save Kevin's future.

Andrew says nothing about Neil Josten for years.

-

Nathan dies on his knees, just as Nathaniel always hoped.

Two to the chest and the body falls, soaked red and wet with blood. Stuart tells him he shouldn't have looked, but he couldn't tear his eyes from the sight.

He's dead. He's dead. _The Butcher is dead_. Nathaniel is free, the phantoms in his lungs escape at last with each ragged breath and broken laugh; and somewhere, in the darkest part of his mind, the lingering ghost of his mother wears the coldest smile.

He's in shock, too disconnected from a fractured reality to realize his uncle is pulling him from the floor and handed him off to two men, who heave him from his feet and half-carry, half-drag him up the narrow stairs leading to the kitchen.

"Nathaniel," His uncle says and his voice sounds distorted and thick, "Nathaniel, listen to me."

Nathaniel looks up with glassy eyes. His body is trembling, he doesn't feel the pain because he's no longer acknowledging it, and though every wound is bleeding sluggishly and all he can smell is the iron tang of blood on his tongue—

"Get me out of here," He rasps, even as he falls to his knees, feels the crack of them against the hard floors, "get me out of this place, I can't— I can't be here—"

Stuart says nothing, and looks at his subordinates, and gives a short, curt nod.

Nathaniel closes his eyes as a black blanket is thrown over his head and he's hoisted over someone's broad shoulder. After that, his mind blanks out and his body goes limp, and the most he can do is force himself to breathe as the world flickers out of his awareness.

-

Andrew follows Kevin to the Olympics.

Kevin assembles his own Perfect Court, a team that carries them to silver and gold, and for the first time ever, Andrew sees a flicker of fire in Kevin's eyes that he hasn't seen since _Nei_ — he cuts off that thought, and buries it deep, and smokes on the hotel rooftop in London.

He thinks back to that moment on the podiums, when their team is celebrating and Andrew is keeping his distance, that his eyes stray to the crowd. It's unsurprising that something in the stands catches his attention, a familiar face in a sea of millions. Andrew feels every nerve in his body _scream_ and his throat dares to close up on him, and he is seconds from throwing himself across the field to drag him from the crowd when Kevin calls him back first.

Andrew doesn't believe in ghosts. If he did, he was sure he'd be haunted most cruelly by that of his mother's ghost, and yet it's the ghost of a liar that slips between the cracks of his dreams and taunts him with promises and keys and truths laced through the lies.

He looks back and the ghost is _smiling_ , the eyes are such a startling arctic blue, and there are scars that _do not belong_ , because that ghost is _his_ —

Andrew blinks. The ghost is gone, lost in the crowd once more.

(The black hole is a wide and gaping maw, open and venomous, devouring the last light he dared grasp for.)

-

France is warm, sultry, and thick with too many scents and too many people.

Andrew hates it, almost as much as he hates Kevin for dragging him overseas. They're on the International Court now, a whole new level of what feels like an entirely different game.

(It's been four years since he saw that _ghost_ , but Andrew shoves it from his mind as best he can. But his memories will not let him and he is haunted more than ever.)

They walk away with another gold, and Andrew simply hands it off the Kevin, uninterested and uncaring. He's leaving the team rooms when a man dressed in designer blacks intercepts him, speaking in accented English, until Andrew spits at him in French to _"hurry, you have one minute"_ ; it's rude, he knows, but he doesn't care.

Instead, he's handed an envelope, wherein a summons in distinct black script on thick paper tells a time, a date, and a place.

(Andrew hates being summoned, hates being commanded, hates even the idea of a leash. But he goes, because curiosity is a deadly and insatiable thing, and his irritation at being called on like this has been raking at his skin unpleasantly for days.)

-

Calais makes him think of old truths he'd rather not dig up. It reminds him of a story of bones on the California coast and the shudder of a broken boy still trying to find his place in the world.

Calais makes him sick.

But the drive continues on, leaving Calais behind and heading for the back country and winding roads, find the way to a private estate soaked in sunlight.

When Andrew steps out of the private car, there's another man in black standing alone on the front steps.

His arms are loose at his sides, and his hands are balled into tight fists, and his sleeves are shoved up to reveal years-old scars and veins that looked uncannily familiar. He has auburn hair glinting blood-red in the sun and piercing blue eyes, he's got a sharp jawline that makes Andrew think of kisses on rooftops and he's too handsome now, too good to be real; _he's impossible_.

( _"As unpredictable as you are unreal."_ )

Because if what Andrew _sees is real_ —

And he thinks of a _pipe dream_ he used to know.

"Andrew."

Andrew _stares_ because he's trying to see what he saw before. Because he remembers _every detail_.

He remembers the tentative smiles, shoulders tense with the weight of lies and lives alike, the slow and purposeful change from _rabbit_ to _fox_. Andrew remembers sharp blue eyes and bruised cheeks. He remembers bright auburn hair and the tickle of short strands against his skin when he gripped the back of a slender neck. He remembers a careful smile, a hand that _stopped_ before it touched him, a game of _truth for truth_.

He remembers the way his name sounded like _salvation_ on the tip of a liar's tongue.

"Neil."

Andrew always hated the way Neil looked at him like _that_.

"I hate you."

He hated that _smile_ , too.

"I know. It's okay if you hate me, remember?"

Andrew thinks, _how could I forget?_  

-


	19. yours, mine, ours / kevin, neil, andrew, and the concept of completeness.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To hold someone without rebuke, to express his affections without earning scorn in return; being able to feel something for someone and knowing the feeling is mutual.

As he catches the looks between them and the smirk on Neil's lips countering the wide-eyed stare from Kevin; he feels _mine_ reverberating in his mind like a prayer and he nearly chokes on it from the chaos it creates.

Words are lost again, because Andrew will never admit how much satisfaction he gets out of making Neil speechless. He knows Kevin is the same, tiny bits of payback for all the times Neil's big mouth caused a media circus for the Palmetto Foxes.

To hold someone without rebuke, to express his affections without earning scorn in return; being able to feel something for someone and knowing the feeling is mutual.

-

When he watches them bicker on the court, slamming each other into the walls, cursing through drills and laps and one-on-one scrimmages; he has to swallow hard against the thoughts of _mine_ , and _idiots_ , then the inevitable and unfamiliar _fondness_ he feels as they stumble off the court both sweaty and smiling.

It only makes him angry and irritated, he's tired, and worn from the come-down, and yet, as they strip away their gear in the locker room, as he catches the looks between them and the smirk on Neil's lips countering the wide-eyed stare from Kevin— he feels _mine_ reverberating in his mind like a prayer and he nearly chokes on it from the chaos it creates.

He fucking _hates_ them, he repeats to his battered and blackened heart.

He despises the tiny smile Kevin gets when Neil's hand takes his and guides him to the showers, he abhors the bright, bright, silver-blue of Neil's eyes under the harsh fluorescent lights. He is filled with this burning sort of _hatred_ when he's in their presence because he can't believe he tolerates their stupidity and their obsession, because they are fucking _fools_ who can't take care of themselves.

When they are clean, and dry, and dressed in fresh t-shirts, sweats and hoodies, shoulders brushing close as they walk out together, he buries the weird fluttering in the back of his mind ( _mine_ ) and orders them both into the back seat of the Maserati. He knows before he's even out of parking lot, both of his junkies will be fast asleep.

Sparing glances towards the rearview mirror, seeing how they've tangled limbs across the seats; how Kevin keeps Neil tucked again his chest and how the auburn-haired smartass looks so small and fragile compared to Kevin's obnoxiously tall and lean-muscled frame. How Neil buries his face in Kevin's neck, hands fisting in his hoodie and body curling as close as possible.

He buries the fleeting feeling of _mine_ , because Kevin is obsession incarnate and Neil is still something of an enigma—

But somehow he has brought them _closer_.

Somehow, this _nobody_ from nowhere (this _liar_ , this _bastard_ , this progeny of a _butcher_ ) has laced himself so thoroughly between them and the flash of unbridled hatred that sparks in his veins and urges his foot heavier on the pedal at the very thought of being so entangled and fascinated by these two such stupid men.

Self-preservation is so unbecoming on Neil these days, no longer fitting him like a second skin (where Kevin fits instead, where Andrew reclaims his flesh and bones and _soul_ instead). Fear and loathing no longer blankets every action Kevin takes, his condescension melting away to a true confidence, his youthful arrogance finally cracking into well-meaning wisdom with the passing of Riko and the downfall of the Ravens.

(Instead there is Neil, tempering the steel in Kevin's veins, making him stronger in the storm; instead there is Andrew, the unlikely calm at the eye of it all, the anchor that made them both _stay._ )

When he pulls into the fox tower parking lot, he pulls into his spot next to Matt's ugly blue monstrosity of a truck and cuts the engine. It's quiet for a moment, the stereo having been turned down low on the ride back. He's looking over his shoulder and watching, waiting, taking in the private scene behind him (as _mine_ beats heavy in his chest and he bites his lip until he tastes blood to ignore the sensation).

"Up, idiots," loud enough, firm enough, to rouse both the exy idiots into waking from their nap, "go to bed."

He follows them upstairs, and locks the door behind them, and herds them both into bed; where they collapse and burrow under the blankets of Neil's bed. Taking up his perch on the dresser, pulling out his carton and lighter and tucking a cigarette between his lips as he keeps a watchful eye on two sleeping fools.

He thinks he will always call them _idiots_ , always think of them as _his_ , and always fight the world to keep them where he wants them (in hand's reach, never further than arm's length), because Andrew Minyard does not share.

And what a terrible and dangerous thing, _always_.

-

Neil finds him alone on the roof and he ignores the other man when he comes to sit in his place next to Andrew (are they _equals_? He doesn't want to think so, but he's willing to bet having Neil sit beside him is as close as equal as they're going to get). He's aware, of course, of everything around him and the world at large. He's observant, he sees everything; he's perceptive, and though his meds had dulled his mind for three years, had pushed him to the edge of mania and stolen his autonomy— he still _sees_ people, because people are oblivious creatures, more ignorant of themselves than of the world around them.

Some days, Neil is the epitome of that notion. While others, he opens his mouth and _words_ come spilling out that give Andrew a small bit of satisfaction that Neil is still not what he seems, that there is steel beneath his skin and iron in his veins.

(Kevin peeks out, cautious and wary, as if he's afraid of intruding on _their_ space— he shouldn't be, and yet— Neil gestures him over, patting the space on his other side and Kevin slips out, coming to sit beside Neil and immediately reaching for his scarred hand— as if Neil is something of an anchor and Andrew resists the urge to snort at that thought.)

The quiet doesn't last much longer. Kevin's mouth seems to have found its way to Neil's throat, long, long fingers threading in Neil's hair shimmering red in the waning afternoon sunlight. It isn't much longer until Neil is absently reaching for him, slender fingers threading into pale blonde hair and tugging gently. He rolls his eyes and takes one last drag, flicking the cigarette over the edge and leaning forward to meet Neil's parted lips, shotgunning the smoke between their mouths before claiming his mouth in a deeper kiss.

Words are lost again, because Andrew will never admit how much satisfaction he gets out of making Neil speechless. He knows Kevin is the same, tiny bits of payback for all the times Neil's big mouth caused a media circus for the Palmetto Foxes.

He knows he hears Kevin murmuring things against Neil's skin as he travels downward, tugging away the collar of his shirt to find his collarbone, lapping as the tender skin there before nipping and sucking it purple and red. Neil bites back another broken moan, because Andrew's teeth have moved along his jaw to his ear, and he lets loose another one when Andrew growls out _mine_ just below it. He knows the exact moment when he and Kevin both grab Neil's hands and thread their fingers with his to give him something to hold onto. Neil's breaths are ragged at this point with all the attention to his neck and mouth, Andrew and Kevin alternating between kissing him senseless and setting his body on fire with their wandering lips and teeth. They take him apart on the rooftop, out of sight from anyone but the heavens above.

Andrew briefly entertains the idea of flipping off the skies, but deems it irrelevant when he hears the word Neil is chanting as Kevin lays him back against the cement and shoves his t-shirt up to litter hungry kisses down his torso.

_"Yours, yours, yours—"_ Neil is absolutely _wrecked_ already and it's only been a few minutes, with his voice trembling and tone so utterly sincere in his surrender to both of them.

The full-body tremor that Andrew feels through the kiss he shares with Neil is bordering on exquisite (he doesn't hate that Kevin's mouth has found better uses than complaining— like swallowing Neil whole, lips stretched and wet with saliva, cheeks flushed and hollowed, he finds him much more useful this way), and the desire he feels in the pit of his own belly is no longer the strangest and most terrifying thing in the world.

As if Neil and Kevin both sense his train of thought, both of them turn their attentions to him, Kevin pressing a tentative kiss to his lips while Neil's trailing wet lines along his throat, alternating between mouth and tongue until Andrew trails a hand down Neil's chest and wraps wandering fingers around his cock, made slick by Kevin's earlier ministrations. Neil whines against his skin, hips jerking upwards and abdominal muscles tensing and twitching the closer he's pushed towards a climax. Kevin disappears and absently Andrew is aware of that annoying mouth above his hand, both of them working Neil to utter _ruin_.

_"Yours, yours, yours—"_

It's fast and messy, and Neil orgasms so hard between the two of them, he can barely cry out. Andrew jerks his hand away as Kevin takes Neil's length deeper to swallow every little bit, only pulling off to lick away the remnants. Neil reaches for Kevin with a trembling hand to grip his dark hair and drag him in for a bruising kiss, and he's using the moment to tuck Neil away, right his jeans and shirt, and sit back to watch the two indulge in a rare moment of affection.

None of them care for PDA, but times like these; when Kevin will initiate in sobriety, and Neil will take any affection Kevin's aching to give, to coax him along until Kevin's comfortable, and Andrew will fill in the gaps—

_This_ is okay. _He_ is okay. _They_ are okay.

-

_All he feels is fire. All he feels is fire. All he feels is fire._

His veins are searing and his nerves are shot to hell, he's so overstimulated, he can't figure out where he ends and where they begin. every night is this, nothing but fire and wanting and _needing_ —

Neil woke with a start, breathing deep and nearly choking on it. Disoriented for a long moment, it took his mind a few minutes to realize he'd fallen asleep on the couch and the room was filling with early morning light. Running his hands through his messy hair with a quiet groan, he knew there was no way he could go back to sleep then. Willing himself to relax, going through breathing exercises and gradually, feeling his body calm itself, he lets the dream fade at last.

Sitting up and scrubbing at his face a little more, he ignores the textures of his scarring, ignores the way his hands still tremble, and gets up to start making breakfast and coffee for the inevitable moment the other two occupants wake and emerge.

-

Kevin's the first to appear. He finds Neil alone in the kitchen, staring absently into the empty space of the sink while the coffee maker gurgles quietly in the background. His hands have a white-knuckled grip on the edge of the counter and his eyes are half-lidded, unfocused and bright in the new morning light.

Making sure to step soundly so Neil knows he's approaching, Kevin moves in behind him and envelops him with long arms slipping around Neil's trim waist, pulling him in close and resting his chin on his shoulder. He waits, doesn't say a word; he can feel the mile-a-minute beat of Neil's heart, can almost hear it, and takes the time to appreciate being able to do _this_. To hold someone without rebuke, to express his affections without earning scorn in return; being able to feel something for someone and knowing the feeling is mutual. He didn't want to let go, just as he didn't want to let go of Neil.

He loses track of time after that, but counts the moments in the increments that Neil relaxes against him, the way the stiffness slowly relents and Neil's hands drop from the counter's edge to rest atop Kevin's.

By the end of that slow release, Neil has turned around and slid his arms around Kevin's waist, hiding his face against the cotton of his sleep shirt, the red of his hair and pale of his skin stark against the black fabric. Kevin holds him closely, tightly, knowing this is one of those times where speaking was unnecessary and pointless; it was the quiet Neil needed, the reassurance.

Kevin gently walked them further into the kitchen and took hold of Neil's hips, titling his head to catch the younger man's eye to ask silent permission and earning a short nod in reply, before he lifted Neil with ease onto empty counter space and stepped between his legs. Lifting his hands to cup Neil's face, he could see the trepidation and hesitation in the downturn of his lips and cloudiness of his bright, bright blue eyes. something in him ached over that, made him press closer to Neil and pull him into the warmth of his larger body.

"Kev..." the whisper of his name was strained, a different kind of need breaking Neil's voice.

Kevin smiled, "what do you need, Neil?"

Neil bit his lower lip, looking far more vulnerable than Kevin was used to, because Neil was an anchor, the embodiment of change for him and Andrew. It was strange sometimes, to see him like this, to find him sinking into his anxiety and even harder to pull him out of it. Neil leaned forward, closing the space between them just a little bit more, the look on his face questioning before Kevin got the hint and made that distance disappear.

The kiss was tentative and slow, as if Neil was trying to familiarize himself with the taste of Kevin all over again. for once, Kevin let Neil take the lead, to take what he needed from the kiss and immerse himself in it. Kevin gave what he could, both reassurance and affection, learning same as Neil how to express what he wanted between words and actions.

When they pulled apart, Neil wrapped his arms around Kevin's neck, burying his face there and breathing in the scent of him. Kevin felt his whole body drop in relief as Neil sagged forward against him. Chuckling quietly to himself, he pulled Neil closer, gripping the other's legs until they were wrapped around his waist before lifting him off the countertop and carrying him out of the kitchen to the living room.

He eased them both onto the couch to lay down and tuck Neil against him comfortably, smiling at the somewhat disgruntled noise Neil makes over how easily Kevin can manhandle him.

"Build more muscle, Josten." Kevin whispers playfully against Neil's unruly curls, while Neil snorts and buries his face further against Kevin's neck.

"Shut the fuck up, Day."

-

Andrew finds them later in the morning, both of them having dozed off to an exy game rerun in the background, volumed turned low for background noise. Staring that the two of them snoozing peacefully for a long minute means there's no one awake/alive to see the tiniest upward twitch of his lips that could understandably be mistaken for a _smile_.

He leaves long enough to get himself a cup of sugar with coffee (he remembers the look on his second and third halve's faces when he stares them down while adding _more_ with relish), sets it down on the coffee table and proceeds to quietly nudge them around so he can sit at the end of the couch where their heads are. When he settles in and picks up his mug, it's out of habit that his hand gravitates to rest in Neil's hair and stroke his fingers through it, then Kevin's; it's an idle action to focus his excess energy on when the caffeine hits.

It isn't until later, that somehow two messy heads both end up in his lap and he gives the two pairs of sleepy eyes peeking up at him the most unimpressed look known to mankind. But it doesn't matter, because they remain silent and he doesn't feel the need to cuff them both on the head for being ridiculous.

It's quiet outside on a Saturday morning and after years of chaos, this is all they needed.

Andrew has coffee, Kevin has peace, and Neil has safety.

( _Mine_ , Andrew thinks before Neil whispers, " _yours_ " after Kevin hums, " _ours_ ").

-


	20. drift / an andreil pacific rim hc (written w/ikebukuro)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was written with the second half, [ikebukuro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ikebukuro) via very wild text messages a few months ago. beware of potential typos, i think.

but stop and consider: a pacific rim au. kevin day and riko moriyama being the hottest shit to ever become jaeger pilots; they're stupid lethal as a team and the media loves them, not just for every kill they make but for the handsome faces they wear and the way they make everything seem so effortlessly easy. they're the heroic stylish saviors of the world, the kind of jaeger pilots the media eats up and parades on talk shows. it's a nice illusion, and something people take comfort in. it's been years since a kaiju got past the raven pilots, and the people they protect are faultlessly loyal -- right up until kevin day quietly drops off the face of the earth and resurfaces weeks later with an official transfer to a smaller, less popular shatterdome (and by less popular we mean pretty much considered the fuck ups) and riko is left piloting with other understudy pilots in his own dome, and people are pissed.  
  
imagine: kevin day being a goddamn rockstar (the angry, washed up kind) in wymack's shatterdome, and he knows what he needs (what he wants) in a copilot but no one here is riko and his head (their head, maybe, after so long) isn't safe for kevin himself much less anyone else, so he settles for shoring up the other pilots and trainees; bumps heads with seth gordon who has potential but too much attitude; reluctantly bows to dan wilds authority because she knows what she's doing and gets faster responses, even if he does it ( everything ) better. just -- it's a different world in wymack's shatterdome; they're not known for one standout team, not known for the ruthless and professional cohesion of their second or third wave teams ( mostly because they don't have any ) ; they're loud, angry, opinionated -- abrasive and unharmonious -- and all the pilots who have drift compatible partners and an assigned jaeger are deployed all at once when a kaiju threat emerges; they fight as a (mostly dysfunctional) team of jaegers, and it's kept their shores (mostly) safe. they do what they can with what they've got; renegade talent, limited funding, and an offshore breach that hasn't stopped since the first wave came through.  
  
dan wilds and matt boyd are copilots and it's almost a shame because kevin thinks he could have shaped her up to be good enough, but dan catches a hint of that in his face and tells him right where he can shove that, because she is good and fuck him for offering criticism without suggestion. she and matt have the highest kill count among the other teams, and that's because they work well together, her determination and his solidity, despite any lack of real combat excellence between them. kevin can't understand that, can't wrap his head around half-assed warriors trying to save the world, but then again, he's a perfectionist.  
  
the rest of the line up is fraught with tension and issues; there's a reason dan and matt are the go-to; the stability. that's because it used to be allison reynolds and seth gordon copiloting together, but gordon's got an attitude a mile wide and can't keep from letting his personal feelings get in the way of the mission; he doesn't like anyone in the shatterdome but the girls, and sometimes matt, but the rest of them can eat shit and he tells wymack this when he gets in seth's face about failing to cover nicky and aaron. seth says let the squids have 'em both. wymack benches him indefinitely.  
  
this causes a problem, because allison reynolds might be seth's partner but she's a damn good pilot otherwise, and leaving her off the roster puts a cramp in the coverage on the coast. renee walker volunteers to fill in for seth, and wymack is tempted to let her because reynolds and walker have a higher drift compatibility than even seth and allison do (face it, seth got allison because no one else could stand him), but wymack only approves the change when andrew minyard signs off on letting his usual copilot ride with someone else.  
  
the problem now, of course, is what to do with andrew -- because of all the pilots in wymack's care, he's got the most talent and the least drive; he wants nothing, doesn't care about the mission or the world; wouldn't even be there if it weren't the better of some lousier options. wymack could put andrew with aaron, or with nicky (because neither of those last two belong in the same machine but they're family, and they're the odd men out so it happens; renee was the only person to ever actually voluntarily pilot with andrew) -- but before he can make the choice nicky volunteers to bow out for a bit and train in loccent, run missions from the station instead of behind a jaeger; let andrew and aaron work together, he says.   
  
that goes absolutely as well as you'd think it would; they fall out of sync immediately; their alignments are always half assed and touch and go; andrew won't let aaron in; aaron's headspace grinds against andrew's uncomfortably. for two people who share a literally identical genetic code, their heads couldn't be anymore different; they break the established rule about being family making for the best drift compatibility. wymack pulls them apart and sends them both back to the bench for a while until he can sort out what to do. he goes from having four functional (if temperamental) jaeger teams to having precisely two and some change. it's rough.  
  
kevin and andrew, meanwhile, dance around each other; they're probably drift compatible but andrew likes to bunk his wavelength tests, and he won't spar with kevin, keeps saying he might kill him just because it's easier. kevin gets frustrated with him because he knows exactly how good andrew is -- he's seen him out there, seen his reaction times and his insight; he could be amazing. kevin wants him to be his new copilot but andrew refuses to rise to the bait, and keeps underperforming just to piss the great kevin day off (and because it's too much effort and he doesn't care that much, and maybe also because kevin day made the mistake once of telling him he was worthwhile and andrew hasn't forgiven or forgotten it since).   
  
so kevin trains, obsessively, and generally rides the other pilots into the ground with his exacting nature and perfectionist demands; andrew tells wymack to do what he wants, he doesn't care; nicky's with loccent; aaron is stuck in the worst kind of copiloting position because he and his own twin can't get it together; seth's benched indefinitely. it's up to allison and renee, and dan and matt.  
  
until wymack gets a hold of a file from another shatterdome, one of those small coastal installations where they rarely ever see a kaiju but they needed to make a show of establishing the defense anyway. he gets a file on his desk and inside are the wavelength scores and training footage of one neil josten. and because kevin is more or less becoming wymack's unofficial right hand (because no one else can validate his need for input) wymack shows it to kevin, and it's kevin day who says, "we need him." and wymack lifts a brow, says, "you sure?" and kevin goes quiet, looks for a long time through the paperwork and says, "he could be perfect." and if that's not the highest fucking praise kevin day has ever uttered in wymack's presence, then --  
  
so they go to this little coastal shatterdome (and andrew comes too, because kevin does and kevin never goes anywhere without andrew these days, it seems, despite everything else) and they corner themselves a skittish pilot who refuses to put his back to the wall, refuses a transfer, and makes a break for it as soon as he gets the chance -- right up until andrew minyard hits him in the solar plexus with a drivesuit helmet.  
  
in this pacific rim au: kevin drags wymack to some rinky-dink shatterdome just off the coast and to convince some skittish no name second-string pilot to drive a jaeger for them, but neil josten does not want to be convinced, takes one look at kevin day and makes a run for it; he makes it half way out of the drivesuit room before he realizes he's not alone, right before a drivesuit helmet smashes into his gut and shoves his ribs up to his throat; it drops him like a stone and when he looks up, there's andrew fucking minyard looking down at him, all manic smiles, like he's the dumbest rabbit to ever run into a snare. "better luck next time," he says, and gives neil a two finger salute that burns behind neil's eyes for weeks and months after.  
  
neil josten lets himself be convinced; he doesn't wanna be, but he misses the drift, misses the invincibility of himself armed in a couple thousand tons of steel and cybernetics. the drift doesn't care about his name, about what made him hide out in a shatterdome no one's ever heard of; the drift doesn't care, and it has never asked him to be anything but what he is: a pilot. kevin day and minyard be damned, he wants to feel alive before he has to die (because he's not an idiot; the past will catch up with him eventually), and he tells himself that he can allow himself this, even if it's the last thing he should be doing; he wants to drive a jaeger into battle a couple more times, wants to lose himself in the drift and the perfect sync of man and machine, and then -- if it gets too hot -- he'll go. neil josten is a ghost and ghosts are good at disappearing.  
  
kevin and neil in the kwoon, and kevin putting neil through his paces; barking orders at him, telling him his form is sloppy, he's leaving holes; look for your angles, use your speed, wrong, wrong, worse. kevin pushes and shoves and generally beats neil into a temper, and when neil snaps at him ( 'why'd you recruit me if you think i'm such a waste?' ) kevin tells him he could be great, if he'll let turn himself over to kevin to mold. kevin says, 'give me your fight, and i'll make you a copilot worthy of riding with me'. and neil -- well, neil knows he can't afford to let kevin in, but he also can't help himself; he agrees to it, because he  w a n t s  this, and it's gonna be hell, but he wants it anyway, and if there's anything he's good at (startling good at) it's keeping up a filter on his end of the handshake. he thinks he can do it. he's determined to.  
  
but andrew: andrew minyard's got a hand on kevin, so to speak, and an eye on neil; he doesn't trust this talented upstart that might as well be tailor made for kevin; the perfect inspiration to get him back in a jaeger (simultaneously right where riko wants him, and also the last place moriyama can afford him); neil has all the baseline compatibility kevin needs; he needs training and molding, and kevin thinks he could be perfect, and isn't that just convenient? too convenient for andrew's tastes. he knows riko's reach; only fools don't.  
  
so maybe it's a day or two after neil arrives; maybe a week; kevin's done wiping the floor with him (again) in the kwoon, and neil is getting ready to leave himself, except that right when he turns to step off the mat, there's andrew with a bo staff and a manic smile; he takes the position and neil tries to decline, but that's not how this works. andrew swings and neil dodges and that's how it starts.  
  
it ends ten minutes later with neil dropping to his knees on the mat, arms shaking, but he's leaning on his bo staff and glaring up at andrew, who is giving him the lopsided grin that looks painfully taut. "done already?" he tips his staff to jab the end up under neil's chin and he bumps it up to lift neil's head, staring right down into those defiant (false) eyes. "your stamina is more solid than your lies, but not by much." and neil's eyes don't widen but his jaw tightens, and andrew's smile is all teeth. "i don't like things that don't add up."  
  
and neil, shoving the bo staff from under his chin and getting to his feet, looking at andrew because you don't look away from a predator, even when you're trying to fly under the radar. "i'm not a math problem."  
  
and andrew, a giddy laugh. "but i'll still solve you." and he gives neil the salute again, two fingers to the temple, and says, "better luck next time," and drops his bo staff on the mat and walks out.  
  
and neil, he holds his spot (his ground) until andrew's actually gone, and then he tries to put both the staves away (and ignores the way his hands refuse to grip and his arms have turned to jelly).  
  
kevin, the next day, is disgusted that neil would waste himself (and kevin's time) by trying to spar with andrew; wymack yells and orders him to stay the fuck in his quarters for a day and rest up, and that if anything of the kind happens again, he'll bench neil the way he does all his other idiots. neil doesn't say it wasn't his idea, but he goes with it; he sits; he rests; he thinks: andrew minyard could be a problem.  
  
he doesn't actually anticipate how much of a problem andrew is gonna be, though; the break in to his quarters, his stuff being rifled through; whatever, hazing shit, he thinks, and takes measures. but it's not until the pilots decide to go out; scratch that, the "upperclassmen" decide to go out, and the "monsters" do too, but not together; neil would have preferred not to go either way, but nicky shows up at the door of his quarters and says, "you're coming with us," and there's no arguing with it. he shoves a bag of clothes into neil's hands, tells him to ditch his contacts, and says they'll be by to pick him up later.  
  
that night ends up with neil, drugged and dizzy in a nightclub a hundred miles away from the shatterdome, fending off an andrew minyard whose manic smile is gone (sober, aware & dangerous) and who wants answers, answers neil's not willing to give him.  
  
the next morning starts with neil waking up in a bedroom he doesn't recognize with a guilty nicky and a dispassionate aaron, and the threat that kevin and andrew will be back soon, that andrew still wants his answers and that he might not hesitate to try prying it out of him in the drift. neil makes a run for it (he's been hard to catch for years; these guys don't have anything on him) and he makes his way back to the shatterdome and he locks himself in his quarters when he gets there. (dan and matt, they ask about, are ready to go to bat for him with wymack if the monsters were outta line, but neil waves them off; he's going to have to tell andrew something, and it has to be the best lie, or rather the most truth, he's ever given someone else.)  
  
so andrew comes back to the shatterdome and goes straight to wymack, but neil meets him there and the conversation that happens doesn't happen in wymack's office per say but in the hall outside it, and the time of day makes it so there's next to no one around, but neil still says what he wants to say in german, not english, because secrets are secrets, even when they're half-lies. and andrew, he wants to know what neil's got, what he's gonna say to prove he's not a plant riko sent to put in kevin's path, the perfect enticement to get back in a jaeger even knowing that his head is fucking shot and his hand on top of it -- what else is neil gonna claim to be but the perfect trap riko could lay for someone as obsessed with his own comeback (and his own copilot) as kevin day?   
  
but neil talks and andrew -- he buys most of it; not all of it, he says so, but enough of it that he decides neil's not riko's plant; tells him he can hold onto his dream of piloting for as long as he's able, if he can -- and that's, at least, a start.  
  
okay, but now consider: the first time neil ever does any wavelength tests at wymack's shatterdome; he's a goddamn prodigy in an unrecognized field -- holding a part of himself apart in the drift. see, usually this is called the modesty instinct, and it's to blame for most algorithmically-paired pilots not working out, because they shy away from sharing themselves entirely, usually over sexual memories. but in this case, neil's withholding tends to effect the sync rate of his drift with a partner, but doesn't necessarily break it; he's able to withhold without falling out of alignment entirely, even if it does read (on the charts) as a less than perfect drift and a spotty sync rate.   
  
but anyway: wymack runs him through wavelengths against the established baselines for his whole other roster of pilots, looking to see where he fits. his highest matches turn up andrew, kevin, renee -- in that order. the margin between his compatibility with kevin and andrew is so thin that it's nearly a toss up; indicators show a surface level similarity closer to kevin, and a subconscious or subsumed level of similarity to andrew. (the compatibility with renee is so much significantly lower that it warrants acknowledgement but not action; renee's compatibility is fairly fluid, which has always made her an invaluable asset on the roster, but she is good where she is.) wymack gambles (partly because kevin is still, honestly, a fucking mess to drift with, and partly because andrew is a valuable pilot he can't afford not to use) and he makes the call to pair andrew and neil, at least preliminarily. they've got a few weeks to feel each other out before their first test run, and they better get to it.  
  
and by a few weeks, what wymack means is two.  
  
a secret: andrew's mania in this verse is still caused by medication, medication which was still subscribed because he was considered violently unstable, possibly as a side effect of too much drift exposure; the PTSD of drifting. when he's in the medication it makes his drifts and sync rate spotty; makes it difficult for anyone to get in alignment with him because he's flying so high that no one can reach him with any sort of natural stretch. but minyard is a damn good pilot so wymack lets him come off his meds for drifting, both in practice and on missions; it's half the reason andrew stays at all.   
  
another secret: andrew off his meds is almost a perfect reverse; his headspace in the drift is so flatline, so monotone, that it takes actual zen master renee to be able to keep sync with him; no one else has the kind of control, that kind of rein on themselves. not even kevin (and the first and last session they tried, kevin ripped the pons off his head with a frustrated scream after when andrew kept flatlining their sync).    
  
the biggest secret: andrew's flatlining is a symptom of both his hormonal imbalance and his apathy; his ambivalence and disconnection from the world around him. but it does for him what neil's split identities do for him in the drift; it gives him the ability to withhold. people can barely touch andrew's consciousness in the drift; renee even only gets what he voluntarily gives her, can only stretch to areas that are of similar ground to the both of them; their shared headspace in the drift is a knife fight spar with a conversation wrapped around the blades, and he never gives her more, even if he sometimes gets more from her than he wants.)  
  
realization: andrew and neil's headspace when they drift is a dizzyingly high rooftop, isolated and alone and inescapable, framed in by a setting sun and air that is intermittently as still as the eye of a storm and then swept clean by a hot lash of wind sharp enough to cleave flesh from bone. their headspace is cigarette smoke and reluctant connection wreathing their faces; it's standing on the edge of a drop that will kill them ( or at the very least sever the connection ) and threatening to shove each other over, to cut each other's throat, to pry each other open ( two lies and a truth ) knowing that they won't. not yet.  
  
( when they come out of it, wymack notes -- privately, because he's not stupid -- it's andrew's longest drift with anyone except renee. )  
  
( neil only knows that his heart is beating out of rhythm and his breathing is short and confused. )


	21. windswept / andrew never saw himself as the one left behind.

Neil has been missing for a long time.

He hasn't thought much of it, has forced himself into a routine that caused the days to blend together and the months to flicker by. He takes care of the cats more than he takes care of himself, everything is rinse and repeat, and the years pass before he bothers to count them again.

Andrew takes it in stride, the crumbling of his foundations and the abrupt end to his peace of mind. But he still has the cats, and their apartment, and his team. He's still living in their life even if there's a massive black hole where Neil should be. He sleeps on his side of the bed, and uses his mug, and steals his hoodies; still, Andrew won't admit he has the tiniest bit of faith that Neil will come home.

He's counted up to six years, nine months, eight days, four hours, and fifteen minutes when there's a quiet, rapid knock on their door at 3:15 in the morning. The cats start yowling and scratching the bedroom door, and Andrew wants to ignore it, wants to think it's some drunk wandering the halls, when the knock happens again, softer this time—

Something clicks in his head. It's a rhythm he recognizes. A beat of breaths he once directed to stave off panic attacks in a certain junkie.

Andrew moves sluggishly because he doesn't want to believe it. He doesn't want to hope—because hope is an broken, fragile thing resting in pieces in the pit of his heart. He doesn't want to believe, because he's only had faith in one thing, one person, and he doesn't want to believe the possibilities on the other side of the door.

The last is two knocks, and a sniff, a sigh; and the hitch of breath on the other side of the door is achingly familiar when the cats cry at the front door, trying to claw at the rubber strip just to get under it. He hissed at them, nudging them away with his feet until they get the hint and scamper away.

Andrew pressed his forehead to the cold wood and breathes, tries to remember what it feels like and feels it like ice in his lungs, "Do I still know you?"

It's quiet on the other side, then he hears a soft thump and a weak laugh, "Are you still my answer?"

"To which question?"

"The one I've been asking since _Neil_ was born."

Andrew closed his eyes, squeezed them tight and again, breathing was difficult when his throat felt tight and his heart raged in his chest; "One hundred percent."

He reached for the locks, and stepped back as the knob turned and took another step back when the door inched open carefully.

At the threshold is a face he once knew—scars he once traced and lips he kissed with something like love. There's new scars on his neck, and the pitch black tailored suit he wears is a bit rumpled, and his mouth is bruised, his cheek is stitched, and the smile is still out of place.

Piercing icy-blues stare back at him beneath a mess of auburn waves, and again, the smile is broken, and those eyes are more hopeful than they ever had a right to be.

"One hundred and one percent, junkie."

Neil steps in close, close enough that Andrew feels the heat coming off him despite the smell of rain and woodsmoke; "Just the answer I was looking for."

Neil has been missing for a long time, and Andrew understands that restlessness came with the territory, that _settle_ _down_ was not in the man's vocabulary. But he also forces himself to remember this: no matter how far, no matter how long, eventually Neil comes home again.

**Author's Note:**

> (brewpub @ [cc](https://curiouscat.me/brewpub) & [dw](https://brewpub.dreamwidth.org))


End file.
